The Seduction of Sarah Walker: A Tale of the CIA
by Notorious JMG
Summary: The story of Sarah Walker's entrance into and career in the CIA before she was assigned to protect the Intersect.
1. Recruitment

_**Author's Note**__: this is the first chapter of a story I intend to write detailing Sarah Walker's entrance into the CIA and her service up until she was assigned to protect Chuck. You'll notice that I have given her the same "real-life" persona of "Elizabeth Lisa Reynolds" that she had in "The Star Spangled Intersect", "Chuck vs. the Bright Side of Life", and "Presenting the Senior Class." While this story is meant to be in the same timeline as those, it is a separate, stand-alone story._

_This first chapter does re-use some dialogue and narration from "Presenting the Senior Class", in addition to further explaining the condition of Sarah's father as seen in Chapter 10 of "Chuck vs. the Bright Side of Life"._

* * *

When the World Trade Center came crashing to the ground in lower Manhattan on September 11th, 2001, Elizabeth Lisa Reynolds, like everybody else in America was shocked and terrified.

The worst part, though, was the fact that two of the planes had left from Boston. The city she lived in, the city she had grown up in.

And that fact drove her father beyond the brink, into a dark realm that few understood.

He had returned from Iraq in 1991 with post traumatic stress disorder – something that few understood then, and not many more understand now. Unlike most, though, his extremely high level of intelligence – a trait passed on to his daughter – had allowed him to continue functioning, even to remain in the Army – until 9/11.

When Beth heard about her father's episode, she was ready to withdraw from the University of Massachusetts, and go back home, to help her mother. But her mother said no. She insisted that Beth remain in school.

And so Beth remained in Amherst. Over the next three months, though, things got worse and worse between her parents. Her father had finally been honorably discharged from the Army, having reached a point of disability where he could no longer serve. And so it was that he sat around the house all day long, yelling at her mother for no apparent reason.

On December 12th, Beth returned to her dorm room from her Russian Literature final, to discover the light on her answering machine blinking furiously. Three messages from the Hoovers, her family's next door neighbors, telling her she had to come home RIGHT NOW.

She had never made the trip from Amherst to Boston so quickly, pushing her two year old Beetle far faster than she really should have. When she reached her parents' house and discovered Massachusetts State Police cruisers outside, she feared the worst.

But her idea of the worst didn't even begin to scratch the surface.

When she went inside, she discovered her father, the strong, proud, Sergeant Major Marcus Lind Reynolds, catatonic, in a state of shock. He sat on the couch, two officers speaking with him, giving them one-word answers.

Beth went to another officer and demanded to know what was going on. Shortly, she discovered that her parents had had an argument to dwarf all others the night before. Her father had stormed out, and had gotten absolutely hammered. He didn't return home that night, and in fact, didn't go back to the house until the following afternoon.

When he arrived home, he discovered his wife, Caroline Pulte Reynolds, in bed. She was pale, and her skin was cold to the touch. She wasn't breathing, and he couldn't find a pulse. It was then that he noticed her prescription bottle of Ambien, just filled the day before, half-empty on the nightstand.

In a panic, he had called 911, but by that time, it was far too late. Caroline Reynolds had been dead for almost four hours.

Beth couldn't believe it. She refused to believe her mother was dead. She didn't sleep that night, or the next, or the next, believing that if she fell asleep, her mother might truly disappear. When she finally saw her mother's body at the funeral on Saturday, she broke down completely and had to be sedated.

She returned to U-Mass for the spring 2002 semester, but she wasn't the same. She battled insomnia, but she refused to get sleeping aids, simply because of what had happened to her mother. She often wished to seek refuge in the arms of her male friends, but she held herself back – an addiction to sexual activity that had formed during high school and had only recently been tempered made her fear even the slightest physical contact.

So it was that she discovered refuge in the form of alcohol. It began as just a little bit to numb the pain at first, but toward the end of the semester, it grew to epic proportions. When she awoke one morning, with no clothes, no idea where she was, a man on one side of her and a woman on the other, she knew that it had to end.

Beth lived the life of a recluse to the end of the semester – no alcohol, no sex, no contact with the outside world except for class. The alcohol withdrawal was horrible – it made her skin crawl, and it only served to worsen her insomnia.

She had been fortunate, though, in inheriting her father's high level of intelligence, and so was still able to finish the semester with high marks. That did not change her decision, however.

After her last final, she wrote a letter of withdrawal. She took it to the registrar's office, officially dropping out of the University of Massachusetts. Upon returning to her dorm, she searched for an old business card.

A month before she graduated high school, she had been visited by a federal employee named Art Graham. He had been particularly interested in her 1540 SAT score and her off the charts ASVAB scores. He had offered her a lucrative job that would be exciting and take her away from the life she had been growing to loathe.

As attractive as the offer had been, she had declined, believing she had an obligation to her family, and an unparalleled opportunity in her scholarship to U-Mass. However, he had given her his business card, writing a "code name" on the back, and telling her that if she ever changed her mind, she should call him, and identify herself by that name.

She finally found the business card, and dialed the number on the front. A 757 area code, which meant it was in the southeast corner of Virginia. "Hello?" a woman answered.

Beth took a deep breath. "May I speak to Art Graham, please?"

"Who may I tell the Director is calling?" the woman replied.

_The Director?_

She looked at the back of the business card. "Tell him… tell him that this is Sarah Walker."

"Just a moment, please, Ms. Walker."

There was a brief pause, and then, the Graham's voice came on the line. "Ms. Walker!" he boomed. "I was wondering if I was ever going to hear from you."

She was silent for a moment. "Circumstances in my life are not the best, and I need a change," she replied.

"I'm aware," Graham said. "I was very sorry to hear about your mother."

"What… how did you know?!"

"There's a very simple answer to that question, Ms. Walker, but I can't answer it over the phone."

"Then who can answer it?" she demanded.

"Do you know a Father Michael O'Halloran?"

She gasped. "Father Mike? At St. Joseph's in Boston?"

"Yes, Ms. Walker. One and the same."

"Of course I know him! He was my parish priest when I was growing up!"

"Go see him, Ms. Walker. Make an appointment to speak with him at his office. Your questions will all be answered."

A week later, she waited outside Father O'Halloran's office, waiting patiently to see him. Finally, he stuck his head out.

"Elizabeth!" he said cheerily, his Irish accent reminding her, as always, of the Lucky Charms leprechaun. "Do come in!"

She followed him into the office. He shut the door behind her, and then turned to her. "I am so sorry about your mother," he said, turning serious. "I wanted to say something to you at the service, but… you were… indisposed."

Beth squeezed her eyes shut tight, trying to make the painful memories go away. But she was unsuccessful, and before she knew it, her body was racked with sobs, hot tears pouring from her eyes. Father O'Halloran embraced her, calming her with whispers telling her to let it go.

Finally, she was cried out, and sat down in a chair in front of Father O'Halloran's desk. He sat across from her.

"There's a way to let go of the pain," he said earnestly. "Just return to the good Lord, Beth. He will wash everything away."

Beth heaved a huge sigh. "All due respect, Father Mike, but where was the Lord when my mother committed suicide? Where was the Lord when my father finally went around the bend? For that matter, where was the Lord on 9/11?"

"Elizabeth, even when all seems lost, you must have faith that the Lord will see you through."

"I'm sorry, Father, but faith just isn't good enough any more."

He nodded. "I know. I was just hoping. But I know that Art Graham wouldn't have sent you my way if you still had your faith."

H paused for a moment. "You see, Art Graham is the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency."

That gave Beth pause. "I beg your pardon?"

"He is the Director of the CIA," Father O'Halloran repeated. "And I, believe it or not, work for the CIA. I'm an asset handler."

"Wait," Beth Reynolds insisted, now thoroughly confused. "So does that mean you're not actually a priest?"

"Oh, not at all, Beth! I am a priest sure as you're sitting there. CIA or not, the Holy Church would never allow me to hold this position if I hadn't been to seminary and taken the holy vows."

She shook her head. "So what does this all have to do with me?"

"The CIA wants you, Beth. They want you badly."

"But why me?"

Father O'Halloran reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a manila folder. Opening it, he began to read. "Elizabeth Lisa Reynolds. Born June 14th, 1982. High school GPA, 4.28. College GPA prior to withdrawal, 3.91. SAT score, 1540. Highly athletic, perfect vision, perfect health. Hand/eye coordination practically unmatched. Fluent in English, Spanish, French, Russian, Polish, German, and Latin; serviceable Japanese, Czech, Swedish, Afrikaans, Italian, Greek, and Portuguese. Photographic memory."

He looked back up at her. "Shall I go on?"

She shook her head. "I get the idea."

"So, Beth, do you want to help rid the world of people like the ones who put aircraft into the World Trade Center and the Pentagon? Because that's the opportunity you're being offered here."

Beth sat back and looked at the ceiling. "What about my father?"

O'Halloran sighed. "Come now, Beth, you've seen the same reports I have."

And she had. After her mother's death, her father had suffered some sort of mental break. He had developed a selective amnesia which prevented him from remembering anything his mind perceived as negative. Unfortunately, this amnesia had not caused him to forget 9/11 or his wife's death – two events he remembered vividly.

He had landed in a mental hospital before she returned to Amherst, and had been there since.

She nodded her head. "But still, what about him?"

"He'll be taken care of, Beth. The CIA will make sure he's placed in a good home, where he'll be cared for and watched over."

Beth slowly shook her head. She had nothing to lose, everything to gain, and a chance for a new life.

"Alright," she said slowly. "What do I do?"

"Give me your wallet," Father O'Halloran said. Confused, she did so. He opened it, and removed everything from it that would identify her as Beth Reynolds. "From this day forward, Beth Reynolds no longer exists. When you walk out that door, your name will be Sarah Walker."

"But why do I have to change my name?"

"Because Sarah Walker does not exist. She has no past, no family, no friends, no enemies. There is nobody who knows her, and no way for the people you will be hunting to figure out who you are and use it against you. Consider it your _nom de guerre_."

She watched as he put into her wallet a set of documents practically identical to the ones he'd just removed. "Driver's license, social security card, library card, voter registration card… even a Blockbuster card, all in the name of Sarah Walker," he said.

She took the wallet back. "So, that's it?"

"Oh, no," Father O'Halloran replied. "When you leave here, you will be met by a car that will take you directly to the CIA training facility in Langley, Virginia. You will take nothing with you except what you have on your person. Anything you need will be acquired for you."

This was all going so fast, it was practically making her head spin. But it was her way out.

"Okay," she said.

She stood to leave. "One more thing," Father O'Halloran said.

"Yes?"

"Good luck, and God bless you, Beth."

She stopped, and then looked at him with a puzzled face. "Who's Beth?"

A sad smile appeared on Father O'Halloran's face, but a gleam of pride appeared in his eyes.

Sarah Walker turned her back, and walked out the door.


	2. Welcome to the CIA

As she walked out the door of St. Joseph's Catholic Church, Beth Reynolds – _SARAH WALKER!_ – saw a black Lincoln Towncar come around the corner and pull up in front of the church. As it rolled to a stop, the right rear door swung open.

She got into the car – and there was Art Graham, Director of the Central Intelligence Agency. "It's good to see you again, Ms. Walker," he said.

"Director Graham," she replied.

"So you know who I am, yes?"

"Father O'Halloran filled me in pretty well," Sarah said. "I have to ask, though, before anything else – what did he mean when he said he was an asset handler?"

"Simply put," Graham stated, "it means that he is the contact for foreign agents in Boston who work for us. There's two members of Russia's FSB – or, if you prefer, the KGB – one French DGSE agent, and one Israeli Mossad agent, all of whom are in Boston, and all of whom are on our payroll. Father O'Halloran oversees all their operations."

Sarah nodded. "I see. But I always thought that the CIA only did international operations."

"That's correct," Director Graham replied. "Technically, this is not an operation. We have compromised several of their agents, and so they work for us, providing foreign intelligence to us, and providing false intelligence to the foreign agencies."

"Interesting. So, is that the kind of work I'll be doing?"

Director Graham looked shocked. "Oh, good heavens, no. You're far too valuable for that."

He steepled his fingers, looking over them at Sarah. "We have plans for you to be what we call a deep cover operative. This goes beyond standard field agent work. It's why you've been given a different name – that is who you 'are', and you take on different 'covers' for different missions. On one mission, you may be Sarah Walker, on another mission, you may be Natasha Fatale."

She looked back at him. "I assume I won't be chasing down a moose and squirrel, though, sir."

Graham smiled. "Quite right. I'm impressed that you got the Rocky and Bullwinkle reference."

"I used to watch it on Saturday mornings with my fat- oh, god dammit."

"Yes," Graham said, shaking his head. "You have to completely forget everything. You have a new childhood, a new past to relearn. Now, I would imagine that something as innocuous as watching Saturday morning cartoons with your father is perfectly fine, but it needs to be part of Sarah Walker's past."

"Understood, sir."

For the rest of the drive to Boston's Logan Airport, she didn't say much, just listening as Graham explained to her some of what was going to happen. At Logan, she boarded a private jet, with no markings save for its identification code. That jet flew her to Langley Air Force Base, where she was met by another Lincoln. This one took her to a farm in the middle of Virginia horse country.

"You'll be staying here during your training," the host informed her and seven other recruits who sat in the living room of the huge old farm house with her that evening. "You are free to move about the property; however, if you leave the property, you leave the CIA. If you wish to become part of this program, you must do exactly as we say.

"There is nothing planned for this evening except for dinner at 7:00 PM. After that, lights out will be at 12:00 midnight. Physical training begins at 6:30 AM; you are expected to be up and on the front lawn at that time."

He picked up a small garbage can. "Before going to your individual rooms, please deposit your cell phones in this can."

There were a few grumbles about that, but those recruits with phones complied. Sarah didn't have a cell phone, so it wasn't a problem for her.

In her assigned room, she was shocked to discover not only her laptop computer, but all of her books and her entire wardrobe. There was no Internet connection for the computer, but she was still pleased to have it.

Dinner that night wasn't very impressive, but it was edible, and it was filling. Sarah was in bed, asleep, by 10:00 PM – the earliest she had fallen asleep in months.

She woke at 5:30 the next morning, went to the kitchen, and had a cup of coffee and a bowl of cereal. By 6:00 AM, she was on the front lawn, doing martial arts exercises to stretch and warm up.

By 6:30 AM, all seven of the other recruits had joined her. They were dressed in a variety of different outfits – tracksuits, basketball shorts, workout clothes. As a result, when the man in battle dress uniform walked into the morning sunlight on the front lawn, he stood out.

"Good morning, recruits," the house host said. "This is Gunnery Sergeant Martin Adams. He is a twenty-two year veteran of the United States Marine Corps, and is a drill sergeant at MCRD Parris Island. Gunny?"

"GOOD MORNING, RECRUITS," the man boomed. "We don't have much time, so I'm going to give you the quick and dirty version of the procedures that you will follow while under my command. When I say, 'Good morning, recruits,' you will respond with, 'Good morning, drill sergeant, sir!' So, Good morning, recruits!"

"Good morning, drill sergeant, sir!"

"That was pathetic! GOOD MORNING RECRUITS!"

"GOOD MORNING, DRILL SERGEANT, SIR!"

"Better, but still weak. When I give you an order, you will respond, 'Yes, drill sergeant, sir!' When you speak to me, your sentences will begin with 'sir' and end with 'sir.' Is that clear?"

"Sir, yes, sir!"

"You learn quickly! Now, let me make something clear. If you think you've seen Marine Corps boot camp because you've watched _Full Metal Jacket_, then you have another think coming! I will make Drill Sergeant Hartman look like a god damn pansy! Is that clear?!"

"SIR, YES, SIR!"

"Good! Now let's see what kind of pathetic group of losers we have here!"

He stepped in front of the first recruit, a Latino man who looked to be two or three years older than Sarah.

"Recruit Alberto Juarez!"

"SIR, YES, SIR!"

"Why do you want to be in the Central Intelligence Agency, Mr. Juarez?"

"Sir, I want to prevent another 9/11, sir!"

"Oh really. And do you plan to do that by your god damn self?"

"Sir?"

"Don't just sir me! You tell me right now, do you plan to go into Afghanistan, and find Osama Bin Laden by yourself, or will you be part of a larger good?!"

"Sir, I wish to be part of the larger good, sir!"

"Then stop being such a selfish son of a bitch, Juarez! Your goal should not be to prevent another 9/11, your goal should be to work with this country to make it safer! Do I make myself god damn clear?!"

"Sir, yes, sir!"

Gunny Adams moved down the line, similarly interrogating each of the recruits. When he came to Sarah, his eyes were almost even with hers – he was only about half an inch taller than her.

"Recruit Beth Reynolds!"

She didn't say a word.

"RECRUIT BETH REYNOLDS!"

Sarah remained silent.

"GODDAMMIT, RECRUIT, SAY SOMETHING!"

"Sir, I am not Beth Reynolds, sir!"

"LIKE FUCKING HELL YOU'RE NOT BETH REYNOLDS! I'VE SEEN YOUR FILE, I'VE SEEN YOUR PICTURE!"

"Sir, my name is Sarah Walker, sir."

"BULLSHIT! YOUR NAME IS BETH REYNOLDS! SAY IT! TELL ME THAT YOUR NAME IS BETH REYNOLDS!"

"Sir, I can't do that, sir, because it would be untrue, sir."

"GOD DAMMIT, REYNOLDS, GET YOUR ASS ON THE GROUND AND START DOING PUSH-UPS! DON'T YOU FUCKING DARE GET UP UNTIL I TELL YOU TO STOP!"

Sarah didn't move. She just remained standing, staring into the drill sergeants eyes.

"REYNOLDS, IF YOU DON'T GET ON THE GROUND RIGHT FUCKING NOW, YOU'RE GOING TO BE BREATHING THROUGH A GOD DAMN HOSE!"

"Sir, I am not Beth Reynolds, sir."

Adams moved faster than a snake. His left fist flashed upwards, catching Sarah under the chin and knocking her to the ground. Stunned, she lay there for a moment, aware of Adams moving to stand over her.

"GET UP, YOU PIECE OF SHIT! GET UP, AND SAY THE WORDS, 'SIR, MY NAME IS BETH REYNOLDS, SIR!'"

Sarah just lay silently on the ground for a moment, collecting her breath.

"GODDAMMIT, REYNOLDS! I WILL DESTR-"

She moved swiftly, faster even than Adams had when he punched her. Sarah used her arms to propel herself off the ground, using years of various martial arts trainings to sweep Adams off his feet with the movement of just her left leg. He tried to correct his fall, but Sarah kicked out with her right foot, hearing bone snap as she made contact with his arm.

Adams hit the ground hard, the wind knocked out of him. He lay there, sucking in oxygen, cradling his left arm, as Sarah got to her feet. Murder in her eyes, she stared down at him.

"Sir. My name is SARAH WALKER. SIR."

"That's enough!"

The now-familiar voice of Director Graham floated across the front lawn. The eight recruits snapped to attention, including Sarah. Behind her, Gunny Adams groaned as he struggled to his feet.

"You all, every single one of you, just failed," Director Graham said, a note of irritation in his voice.

"Except for Sarah Walker. She was the only one who did not respond to a name that no longer exists. She refused to answer to that name, instead maintaining her cover.

"A deep cover operative must be able to maintain his or her cover, no matter the circumstances. From what I saw here, the only one of you with the ability to do that is Ms. Walker.

"The other seven of you will be escorted from here back to the Langley Training Facility. You still have the opportunity to become field agents; however, it is a serious mark against you to be dismissed from this training program."

Director Graham paused. "Thank you for your time. You're dismissed."

They all headed for the house, seven with looks of shock on their faces, and Sarah trying desperately not to smile. "Ms. Walker!" Director Graham called, stopping her.

She stopped and turned to face him, as he walked toward her. Gunny Adams walked behind him, gingerly cradling his arm.

"I don't want to compliment you too much, but that was a very impressive display," Graham said. "However, I would recommend a little less force in the future."

Sarah grimaced and looked at Adams. "I'm sorry about the arm, sir."

He waved off the apology with his good hand. "I should've been prepared," he replied. "But then, so should have you been prepared when I punched you. Let that be a lesson."

She nodded. "Yes, sir."

He looked at her with an appraising eye. "I think you'd make a good Marine, Walker."

"Thank you, sir."

Graham chuckled. "Don't you dare, Adams. Go have the host take you to get that arm taken care of, and stop trying to steal Agent Walker."

Sarah's eyes widened. _Agent Walker._

Graham saw the look on her face, and interpreted it correctly. "That's right. From this point forward, you are Agent Walker. You will answer to that title, and you will be addressed by that title. If anybody refers to by 'Walker' or by any other title from this point forward, you may feel free to correct them."

"Thank you, sir."

"Now, I want you to understand something, Walker."

"Agent Walker, sir."

Graham smiled. "Of course. Agent Walker. You must understand. This was the easy part. From here on in, everything gets more difficult. I believe that you have what it takes to handle it. The question is, do you?"

"Yes, sir. I'm ready."

Graham nodded. "Good. You'll spend the remainder of the day here, being briefed on CIA policies and procedures by staffers who will be coming in from Langley. Tomorrow morning, you will accompany them back to Langley to begin further training. Any questions?"

"No, sir."

"Good," Graham replied. "Welcome to the Central Intelligence Agency, Agent Walker."


	3. The Sparrow School

_Okay, I will admit that in this chapter I may have pandered to the immature male psyche just a little bit. However, I felt like this was an important part of Sarah's story._

_Also, there is some mature content in this chapter. Mostly implied, but it's still there. Read on at your discretion._

_**3/15/08:** Had to edit due to a totally bone-headed mistake. This chapter takes place in November of 2002. Sarah Walker - both her real identity and her cover identity - was born in 1982. Therefore, she would not have been old enough to legally order alcohol in the last scene. Oops._

* * *

Sarah Walker had been in training to be a deep-cover operative for five months now. She had undergone hundreds hours of classroom training for fieldcraft, training on how to drive a vehicle in an emergency situation, how to fly an aircraft in a DIRE emergency situation, and over a hundred ways to kill a man. 

Her physical training had been continued with Gunny Adams. He turned out to be a much more pleasant individual in a one-on-one situation when the trainee was eager to learn. In a strange way, he reminded her a lot of her father.

Her martial arts skills had been highly refined. Several martial arts masters were in the employ of the CIA, and they had fine-tuned the skills she already had, while teaching her other skills that she didn't even know existed.

Her language skills had been increased. She was no longer fluent in seven languages and could speak passably in seven more; instead, she was now fluent in all fourteen and was learning Mandarin.

Unfortunately, she was not looking forward to the training she would be undergoing in November of 2002. She, along with a number of other female deep cover and field agent trainees, would be attending a training program run by the CIA that was jokingly known as "The Sparrow School."

The Sparrow School was what spy novel author Tom Clancy had dubbed a certain school within the training program for the defunct Soviet Bureau for State Security, otherwise known as the KGB. The role of the Sparrow School was to train KGB agents in the art of sexually manipulating individuals in order to further their mission.

And that was precisely what the "Sparrow School" in Monterrey, California, did. The top deep cover and field agents, those who were expected to draw the most advanced assignments, were sent to the program.

For Sarah, of course, even though her sexual addiction was part of a person that no longer existed, it was still very, very real for her. She knew that the only way to keep that from re-awakening was to shut her mind off during the training, become completely inured to sex. This prospect in itself concerned her, because she was afraid she would lose the capacity for the emotional intimacy that went with a sexual relationship, and she wanted to actually have a worthwhile relationship with somebody SOMEDAY.

The school trained both male and female agents, but never at the same time. At any given time, the population of the school would be made up of the trainees of one gender. The staff of the school were a group made up of both genders, all of whom – from the housekeeping staff to the program director – were Agency employees who had volunteered with the knowledge that they might become a mark for seduction. The idea of the school was to teach the agent to seduce anybody, either gender, any where, at any time.

The identity of the program director was a rather unexpected shock. She introduced herself as a rather well-known adult film star, and explained that she had been training CIA agents for nearly twenty-five years. She said that since she was good at what she did, she figured she'd give it a shot in the public sector as well. She had become a millionaire in the process, but kept working for the CIA out of a sense of duty.

"In its most basic form," the program director explained, "it's very simple. Have any of you seen any episodes of Joss Whedon's new show, _Firefly_?"

Every trainee in the room raised a hand except for Sarah. "No, Agent Walker?"

"No, ma'am. Sci-fi's just not my cup of tea."

"Fair enough. Anyway, within the show, there's the concept of somebody known as a Companion. This individual's primary objective is to be a sexual companion, but with training in intelligence gathering and fighting. Now, obviously, your primary goal as agents of the Central Intelligence Agency is to gather intelligence, but when you leave this program, you will be sexually trained in the same fashion as a so-called Companion."

The director paused and looked around the room. "Are there any questions before we move on?"

No hands were raised.

"Very well. Let's start off with a very basic question, and just get this out of the way first thing off the bat. How many of you have had sex?"

A quiet giggle ran through the room, as every woman there raised her hand. "Alright, how many have had more than one partner?"

A couple of hands went down. "More than two partners?"

A couple more hands went down. "More than five partners?"

Half the hands in the room went down. "More than… ten partners?"

All but three hands in the room went down. Sarah's was one of the ones still in the air, and she could feel a warm blush moving up the back of her neck.

The director continued. "More than twenty partners?"

Sarah's was the only hand remaining in the air, and as she realized that, she quickly pulled it down, the blush climbing the rest of the way up her head and enveloping her face completely. She battled back tears.

Seeing this, the director quickly said, "It's nothing to be ashamed of, Agent Walker. I think it's shameful how our society demonizes women who have had multiple sexual partners, when it's considered a sign of virility in men."

She looked around the rest of the room and continued, "Quite frankly, Agent Walker's experience puts her at an advantage. She will likely require less training, and finish the program well before most of you, meaning she will have to endure less."

As small a consolation as that was, it was nonetheless a ray of hope for Sarah. The sooner she got out of Monterrey, the better she would feel.

"You will each have a personal instructor," she went on. "This instructor will teach you the art of seduction, will judge your progress, and will decide when you have completed the program. Are there any questions?"

There were none. With that, the director went outside, and when she returned, a group of women trailed behind her. They appeared to range in age from about 25 to about 40. All were dressed in black.

"These are your instructors," she said. "You have each been paired with an instructor based on an evaluation by the Agency. Some are Agency, some are not."

She had each of the women come forward one at a time. As each came forward, she would call off one of the trainee's names, and they would go off within the facility to become acquainted with their instructor.

A tall, statuesque red-headed woman stepped up. "Sarah Walker," the director called.

Sarah got up from her seat, and went forward. "Carina Hansen, DEA," the woman said, extending her hand.

"Sarah Walker, CIA," she responded, shaking the woman's hand.

"Pleasure to meet you, Agent Walker. Let's go for a walk."

* * *

The identity of Carina Hansen was to this woman what the identity Sarah Walker was to Sarah. However, she had come to fully live it. Her cover story was practically identical to her real life story – born in 1977 in Finland, came to the United States with her parents when she was a small child. An almost unpronounceable Finnish name had been changed to "Hansen", and after watching two of her best friends die of overdoses in high school, she had decided to join the Drug Enforcement Administration to help put a stop to those types of events. 

"I volunteer a month of my time every year to this program," she explained. "It's important to have agents with these types of abilities, and honestly, it's really fun teaching inexperienced kids how to seduce people."

Sarah laughed. "I am, um, far from inexperienced."

"Is that a fact," Carina replied. "How many sexual partners?"

Sarah held her breath for a moment. "Twenty-nine."

"REAL-ly," Carina breathed. "You're right up there with me. Well, not quite, but close. Any group encounters."

"Uh-huh," Sarah said quietly, nodding. "There was one, but I was so drunk that I don't remember it."

"Ew," Carina replied, wrinkling her nose. "I hate it when that happens. Those are the worst."

Sarah just looked at her. "I take it you've had these experiences?"

"More than once, Agent Walker. I'm a big fan of sex."

Sarah raised an eyebrow. "I see."

"Come on, it sounds like you are too."

She sighed. "Not really. When I was in high school, I used sex to escape my life. Things sucked at home, and sex took my mind off of it. The thing was, I had sex and without any sort of, you know, emotional intimacy that I would get bored with one partner quickly, and move on to the next. Of those twenty-nine, twenty-six were during my last three semesters of high school."

"Ah," Carina said. "I stand corrected."

"I went into counseling when I went off to college," Sarah continued. "They told me I had developed a sexual addiction, so I pretty much quit cold turkey. I started going to group meetings – they called it Sex Anonymous, if you can believe it. I had a… a relapse, I guess, right after 9/11, with one random guy, and then, the last two were the… um, threesome I told you about, right before I dropped out of school and joined the Agency."

Carina was quiet for a moment. "So, I'm assuming you really don't like the idea of being here."

Sarah laughed bitterly. "I'd be lying if I said I did."

Carina looked at the younger woman. "Then don't do it," she said. "Tell the program director you can't do this program. I'll talk to Director Graham. There are plenty of worthwhile things for agents to do that don't involve seduction."

Sarah shook her head emphatically. "If I'm going to be trained, I'm going to go the whole nine yards," she replied. "I'm not going to do a half ass job. Either I'm an agent, or I'm not. If I can't complete this course, I don't deserve the title of Agent."

Carina raised her eyebrows. "You really are dedicated to this, aren't you?"

Sarah nodded.

"Then let's do this thing."

* * *

Sarah really didn't have the first clue about seducing somebody. Carina had to really go from the beginning. In high school, Sarah hadn't had to really work at it – just wear a low cut blouse and a tight skirt, and the boys kind of developed a flock-and-fuck mentality. 

Carina decided that Sarah needed a practical demonstration, and so she went to the motor pool and found one of the chauffeurs. She put the moves on him smooth as silk, and before Sarah knew it, Carina was dragging the chauffeur into an empty office – and making Sarah come in as well.

Sarah couldn't believe her eyes as she watched what essentially amounted to live porn. She felt very odd watching two people have sex, live and in person, but it was like a bad car wreck – she couldn't look away.

Afterwards, Carina made a point of one thing. "Always, always, ALWAYS convince your mark you had an orgasm," she emphasized. "It will make them think that they're hot shit, and they will probably tell you just about anything."

"Oh, joy," Sarah replied drily. "That should just be a blast."

After a number of classroom lessons with textbooks and videos – SO much fun – and a few "practical demonstrations", Carina informed Sarah that it was time for her to give it a shot.

Sarah had picked out her first mark days before – nobody who was anything like the chauffeur. She had decided, instead, to go for a kind of nerdy looking guy in the administrative offices.

"Why, exactly?" Carina had asked.

"Let's think about it. A chauffeur might overhear his boss talking about something. MIGHT. But an administrative assistant is going to handle hundreds of sensitive documents, be privy to top secret information… a much better source of intelligence."

Carina had nodded appreciatively. "You're good, Sarah, you're good."

When Sarah approached the admin guy at the copier one day and started flirting with him, he almost broke down and wept for joy. Nonetheless, he did put up a bit of resistance, making Sarah work to get him into her bedroom.

When they had finished, Sarah kissed him good night and sent him on his way. As she turned around to prepare to get ready for bed, something very strange happened.

The full length mirror on the wall swung outward, and Carina stepped out.

"What. The. HELL?" Sarah asked, her eyes widening.

"Well, I have to judge you SOMEHOW," Carina replied. "And you did well, mostly. You looked kind of bored, and you need to not look bored. You need to be completely into it. But for the first time in that sort of situation, you did pretty well."

Carina told Sarah to be a little more ambitious for her next mark. Sarah went above and beyond ambitious. She decided to go for the department head, a CIA career man with twenty years of service who was in charge of the facility.

He was a little surprised, but pleased to be approached by one of the trainees. It took Sarah even longer with him than it had with the guy from the admin pool, but sure enough, by the end of the night, he was walking out of her bedroom with a very satisfied look on his face. He made sure to report Agent Walker's superb performance to Agent Hansen.

"You did extremely well with the department head," Carina informed her the next day. "In my observation of your performance, you markedly improved over the last time. You looked like you were enjoying yourself and having fun, and he said it was the best he's ever had."

As ambivalent as Sarah was about the whole program, that remark did please her. It was nice to be regarded as "the best."

"Quite frankly, I think one more, and you'll be ready to be done with the program," Carina informed her. "But I get to pick this one."

Sarah frowned. "How will I know who it is?"

"Simple," Carina responded. "Your mark will meet you at the Taphead Pub, Saturday night, at 10:00. He or she will greet you with the remark, 'How 'bout them Packers'."

"What?"

"As in the Green Bay Packers, Sarah. And do make sure not to actually wear any Packers gear, so that nobody says it to you on accident."

"Right."

* * *

Sarah arrived at the Taphead Pub at 9:30, wanting to get the lay of the land first – just like any good intelligence officer would. Having figured out the layout of the pub, she took a seat at the bar and got an ice tea. 

Looking across the bar, she saw what was clearly a college-age couple – a taller, kind of nerdy, but still good-looking guy with curly brown hair, with his girlfriend, a striking brunette with nerd glasses that she somehow made look sexy. They were laughing and clearly having a good time.

_That could be me,_ she thought. She sighed when she overheard the brunette say, "Love you Chuck," and heard him respond, "Love you too, Jill."

_Why couldn't that have been me? I could've had a normal life._

"How 'bout them Packers?"

Sarah's eyes widened at the voice, and she whirled on her bar stool. Carina stood behind her in a low-cut slinky black dress.

"Are you kidding me?!" Sarah hissed.

"Not at all," the DEA agent replied. "Get to work, Agent Walker, you're not getting this one for free."

And so Sarah got to work, all right. Her anger made her more aggressive, and it wasn't long until Carina Hansen was like putty in her hands.

When they began to draw lingering looks from a number of the men in the bar, she knew it was time to go. She didn't stop on the drive back to the School, though. By the time she and Carina got back to her room, Carina was practically tearing her clothes off.

What Sarah didn't know was that this time, the program director was behind the mirror. "Here we go," she muttered as the door opened and the two agents practically fell into the room.

* * *

Three days later, Sarah Walker left the Sparrow School. She had passed with flying colors, and was certified to move on to the final stage of mission training. She was VERY happy to leave Monterrey in her rear-view mirror. 


	4. O Holy Night

Sarah Walker was hugely excited.

She was about to receive her first assignment, the one that would determine whether or not she would become a true deep-cover operative for the CIA.

As she stood in front of Director Graham's desk, it was all she could to do to keep from bouncing on her toes in excitement as he looked over the portfolio he was about to hand her.

Finally, he stood up, said, "Here you go. Look over it, tell me if there are any problems."

Nearly trembling with anticipation, Sarah opened the cover of the manila folder. She scanned down to the alias profile –

_Cover name: Elizabeth Lisa Reynolds_

Her eyes widened in shock, and she looked up at Director Graham. "I… don't understand."

"We're sending you home for Christmas, Agent Walker," Graham replied. "Your mission is to recreate the persona of Elizabeth Reynolds, and convince your family and friends that that's who you still are, all the while not compromising Sarah Walker."

"That doesn't sound very difficult," she said. "I thought my final test would be something more challenging."

"It will be more difficult than you think," Graham answered. "But quite honestly, you've exceeded all our expectations so far. This is more procedure than anything else."

He paused, and leaned forward, placing his hands on his desk. "That, and we thought you might want to go home for Christmas."

She sighed. Yes, she did want that very much. "Thank you, sir."

Sarah turned to leave his office. "Sir, one more question."

"Yes, Walker?"

"Father O'Halloran. Can I tell him about any of what's happened in the last six months?"

Graham looked back at her. "Michael O'Halloran is cleared higher than anybody else in the CIA except for me," he replied. "There may be some things about your training he doesn't **want** to hear, but he's cleared for all of it. If he asks, be honest – after all, he was your 'entrance recruiter'."

She nodded. "Thank you, sir. And Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, Walker."

* * *

Sarah didn't get to return to Boston as she had left six months before – in an unmarked CIA jet. Rather, she flew US Airways, so it wouldn't look suspicious.

A friend of hers from high school picked her up at Logan Airport, giving her a huge hug when she saw her. "You look fantastic, Beth!" she exclaimed. "How have you been?"

_I'm Beth Reynolds again_, Sarah reminded herself. "I've been great… how have you been, Nicole?"

"You're not going to believe it," Nicole replied, "but I'm three months pregnant!"

_Oh, I believe it_, Sarah thought grimly. If anybody had been as promiscuous as she had in high school, it was Nicole.

"Congratulations!" Sarah replied, trying her best to convey a false sense of enthusiasm. "Who's the father?"

"Chad McMillan," Nicole said flippantly, and Sarah saw red.

_Chad McMillan_. _That sorry son of a bitch. The only guy I ever ACTUALLY wanted in high school, the guy who I could never ACTUALLY get, and Nicole managed to get him into bed, and now she's having his KID?! YOU BITCH!!!_

She took a deep breath. Being Beth Reynolds again was going to be a lot easier than Director Graham though.

* * *

Nicole took Sarah to her hotel first, where she dropped off her suitcase. Then, she drove her over to the Beacon Hill neighborhood, to the old converted mansion where her father was living.

Sarah and Nicole parted ways then, with Sarah going inside. As she stepped into the front parlor, she felt like she was stepping into the past – which she realized she was, seeing the plaque indicating that the building was on the National Register of Historic Buildings.

"May I help you, ma'am?" the woman at the front desk asked.

"Yes, my name is Beth Reynolds. I'm here to see my father, Mark Reynolds?"

The woman checked in the computer. "I need to see some I.D., please."

Sarah had been prepared for this, and as instructed by Director Graham, pulled out both her Sarah Walker I.D. and the Beth Reynolds I.D. that had been returned to her for this mission.

The woman looked at both of them, and then handed them back. "Thank you, Ms. Reynolds. He's in the common area right now. Joseph will take you to him."

A young man who looked like he was in high school at first glance stepped out from behind the counter. When Sarah looked closely at him, though, she realized that he was not exactly what he appeared to be.

As she walked next to him into the common room, she softly asked, "Agency?" She looked over at him. He didn't say anything, just nodded slightly in reply.

"Sergeant Major Reynolds?" Joseph said, walking up behind a recliner.

"What is it?"

Sarah hadn't heard his voice in nearly a year, and her stomach jumped a little. "You have a visitor, sir."

The chair turned, and their eyes met. His eyes widened, and hers began to fill with tears.

"Beth!"

"Daddy…"

He jumped out of his chair, and pulled her into the type of bear hug that only a retired Army drill sergeant would give. "Oh, God, I've missed you so much," he said softly.

"I missed you too, Daddy," Sarah sniffled.

Planting a kiss on her forehead, Mark Reynolds sat back down in his recliner. Sarah looked around, and discovered a chair parked not too far away, which she dragged over and set next to him.

"So," he began. "Tell me all about Washington. I want to know all about you working in Senator Kerry's office. Every sordid detail."

This had been in the mission briefing file as well. Beth Reynolds, after dropping out of U-Mass, had gone to Washington, and gotten a job working for Massachusetts Senator John Kerry. Sarah had wrinkled her nose a bit at that, because she wasn't a particular fan of Senator Kerry, but when told that the alternative was Ted Kennedy, she decided to go with Kerry.

"It's interesting, Dad. You get to see all these things you never thought you'd see, things you never wanted to see. You know that thing that Leo McGarry said on _The West Wing_, how there's two things that you never want to see being made – laws and sausages? It's so true."

It was a little disconcerting for her to be able to lie to her father so easily, but Director Graham had told her that that was part of what being an agent was all about. It was her cover, and she had to live it.

Her father laughed at the "laws and sausages" remark. "So tell me," he said, more quietly and a little conspiratorially. "Is the Senator going to run for President in 2004? I keep hearing these rumors that he is."

That one caught Sarah off guard. Nobody had mentioned anything to her about John Kerry possibly going after the Democratic nomination. So, she improvised.

"Daddy… I'm a junior level staffer. They don't really consult me on these decisions, you know?"

"Oh well," her father replied, leaning back in his chair. "Not that it matters, since I'll be voting to re-elect the President anyway. Good man, Mr. Bush."

Sarah rolled her eyes and bit her tongue. She would never win an argument with her father about George W. Bush, so why even bother?

* * *

On Christmas Eve, Sarah and her father went to church at St. Joseph's. It was the first time that Sarah had been in the church since her recruitment, and the first time she'd been there for a church service since before her mother died.

They arrived about thirty minutes early, to find good seats. Father O'Halloran's eyes lit up when he saw them come in, and he approached them.

"Mark! Beth! 'Tis good to see the both of ye," he exclaimed, his Irish accent, as always, more pronounced than usual at Christmas time ("'Tis good fer the visitors," he'd explained once).

"Mark, do ye mind if I steal a moment of yer daughter's time, just to get caught up and make sure she's still livin' the life of a good Catholic girl?" he asked.

"Not at all," Mark Reynolds replied with a laugh. "I would certainly hope she is, given that she's working for a Catholic."

"Aye, and a good Irish Catholic man himself, Senator Kerry," O'Halloran replied.

"Hah!" Mark Reynolds said, expressing his disdain for the Democratic Senator. But he refrained from anything further, instead going into the church to find seats for himself and his daughter.

O'Halloran led Sarah into his office. "So, Agent Walker, how goes things?"

"I'm sorry," she replied with an impish smile, "but my name's Beth Reynolds. I'm afraid you have me confused with somebody else."

He nodded. "Aye, and very good with maintainin' your cover, young lady. How's the trainin' been?"

"I have learned more about the intelligence community than I thought was possible," she replied, turning serious. "There's some things that amaze me, some things that I never wanted to even know."

"And yer skills? Have they improved any?"

"Well, I don't mean to brag, but given that I'm fluent in fourteen languages and know over a hundred ways to kill a man now… I'd say yes."

"And what of that blasted Sparrow School? Did they make ye participate in that program worthy of Sodom and Gomorrah?"

Sarah looked downward and closed her eyes. "Yes, Father, they did."

He sighed heavily. "I know that it's an important bit of training, but it just hurts my soul to see young men and women forced to do such debauched things with themselves."

Sarah looked back up at him. "If it's any consolation, I was in and out in three weeks."

"Aye, BETH, but that's still three weeks of livin' in sin that ye could've done without."

She shrugged. "I'm working for a greater good, Father."

He nodded. "I know, I know."

Father O'Halloran paused and sighed. "Beth… do ye wish to give confession before going in to the service?"

Sarah thought about it for a moment, and then shook her head. "I'm sorry, Father, but given that I'm not sure whether or not there really is a God, I don't think it could truly be a sincere confession."

He sighed again. "Well, at least yer honest," he said, his voice pained. "But believe me when I say that I pray every day for yer protection and for the eternal salvation of yer soul."

* * *

The service was a beautiful one. Despite the fact that her belief in God had mostly evaporated, there was still something about a traditional Catholic church service – especially on Christmas Eve – that touched Sarah deep within.

She began to tear up when one of the altar boys got up to read the second chapter of Luke. The passage about the birth of Christ, and the angels appearing to the shepherds in the fields had always been so much a part of her childhood. She thought back, remembering much happier Christmases, where she'd always waited anxiously for CBS to air _A Charlie Brown Christmas_ so she could hear Linus speak those words.

After Father O'Halloran's homily, a young man about Sarah's age went to the front of the church. He looked rather familiar, but Sarah couldn't place his face. But she forgot all about that when he opened his mouth and began to sing.

_O Holy Night, the stars are brightly shining… it is the night of our dear Savior's birth._

He had, unquestionably, the most beautiful voice she had ever heard. Even with just bare accompaniment by the piano, his voice filled the church, rising to the rafters and slowly trickling back down to the floor.

_Long lay the world in sin and error pining, till He appeared, and the soul felt its worth._

As the young man sang with the voice of an angel, the emotions that had built up inside of Sarah over the last year – from her mother's death, to her torturous last semester at U-Mass, the sudden departure from Boston, the isolation during training at Langley, the unspeakable sense of filthiness she had felt after Monterey – it all just began to boil to the surface.

_A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices, for yonder breaks, a new and glorious morn!_

Without warning, her emotions bubbled over, and a huge sob burst forth from her chest. Her father looked over at her in concern.

_Fall on your knees, oh hear the angels' voices!_

Sergeant Major Mark Reynolds wrapped his daughter in his strong arms as she cried, the weight of the last year slowly slipping off her shoulders.

_Oh night divine, oh night when Christ was born…_

As he held her, a tear slowly slipped out of his eye and ran down his cheek.

_Oh night divine, oh night, oh night Divine!_

* * *

After the service, after Sarah had recovered, she sought out the young man who had sung the song. "That was absolutely beautiful," she said, shaking his hand.

"Thank you," he replied. He looked at her curiously. "Have we met before?"

"I think we have," she said, "but I don't remember where."

"I'm Frank and Lynn Hoover's nephew," he replied. "I'm up from Hartford – back from Stanford University on Christmas break."

"Of course!" Sarah exclaimed, her eyes widening. "The Hoovers were my old next-door neighbors!"

"Oh, okay, yeah!" he replied. "I knew I'd met you before."

"I'm Beth Reynolds."

"Nice to finally know your name, Beth," he laughed, looking her in the eyes. "I'm Bryce Larkin."


	5. Iraq and Roll

**_Author's Note:_**_ I apologize if I allowed my personal politics to influence this chapter a little. I will admit up front, I am no fan of President Bush or of the Iraq War. However, I tried to make this chapter as neutral as possible._

* * *

**  
**

**March 11****th****, 2003**

After Christmas, Sarah sat around Langley for nearly three months. No assignment.

She didn't necessarily mind – after all, she was still drawing a rather handsome paycheck. However, she was getting bored, and she could only spend so much time on the shooting range.

Finally, toward the middle of March, she got a call from Director Graham.

"Meet me in the main facility lobby," he said. "We're going for a little ride."

Sarah met Director Graham, and they left and got into a Crown Victoria idling by the curb. He said only, "Drive," and the car pulled away.

It was a few minutes before Sarah realized they were headed into Washington. "Where are we headed to, Director?"

"You'll see in a moment, Agent Walker."

She began to recognize tourist attractions as they approached the center of the city. However, when the car turned onto Executive Drive to pull into the White House complex, she just about had a heart attack.

"Director… why are we going to the White House?"

He turned and smiled. "Agent Walker, you're about to meet your Commander in Chief."

She was stunned. The President?

She was also a little annoyed. Why THIS President?

As they entered the White House, Sarah was frisked by a Secret Service agent, and given a pass which she was told she would need to wear at all times. Director Graham led her through a seemingly endless warren of corridors and offices. Nothing looked like it actually did on _The West Wing_…

Except for this office. The ante-room to the Oval Office. Sarah's eyes widened when she realized where they were.

"Good morning, Director Graham," the President's administrative assistant said. "The President is on a phone call right now, but he'll be with you in just a moment if you'd like to take a seat."

Graham and Sarah sat. Sarah couldn't stay still fidgeting and bouncing from nervousness, until Graham shot her a look.

Finally, the assistant's phone rang. "He's ready to see you now," she informed them.

Graham got up and crossed to the door that led into the Oval Office. Sarah, practically trembling, followed.

The door opened, and Graham entered, Sarah right behind him. "Artie!" she heard a very, very familiar voice call across the room.

"Mr. President," Director Graham replied. The President stood up behind his desk, and crossed around in front of it, approaching the Director to shake his hand.

"And you must be Agent Walker," the President said, reaching out to shake Sarah's hand.

"Yes, sir," she replied.

"Didn't know the CIA made agents that looked like you," he joked, his accent starting to grate on Sarah's nerves a little.

"Yes, sir," she replied again, forcing herself to not roll her eyes.

"Have a seat, have a seat," the President said, indicating the couches. Director Graham and Sarah crossed in front of the couches, but remained standing as the President approached the coffee tray on the side of the room.

He was halfway through pouring himself a cup of coffee when he noticed that they were still standing. "Seriously. Have a seat."

"Yes, sir," the said in unison.

"Artie, can I get you anything?"

"No thank you, Mr. President."

"Agent Walker – your name's Sarah, right? Can I call you Sarah?"

"Absolutely, Mr. President."

"Can I get you something?"

She had no idea what to say. She really wanted a cup of coffee, but she felt like asking the President to get it for her was the ultimate in rudeness. However, no caffeine, and she might make an ass of herself.

Sarah's need to remain poised won out. "If you don't mind, sir."

"Not a problem, Sarah, not a problem at all. How do you take it?"

"Black, sir."

"Well, that's easy, ain't it."

Director Graham was giving her a look like, _Have you lost your mind?_

She just looked back, trying to say, _He asked!_

The President came over to the couches, and handed Sarah her coffee. "Thank you, sir."

"A pleasure, Agent Walker."

He took a seat in a large easy chair at the end. "Alright, Director Graham, so why don't you fill Agent Walker in on what you have in mind here."

"Yes, sir," Graham said. "Agent Walker, simply put, we're sending you to Iraq on a covert negotiation mission with Saddam Hussein."

Sarah, having just taken a mouthful of hot coffee, swallowed it too quickly and started coughing. She set the coffee cup down on the table in front of her, and when she finally recovered, gasped out, "What?!"

"Agent Walker, I'm sure you've seen the evidence that Secretary Powell has been showing the United Nations regarding Iraq's WMDs," the President explained. "We want you to go in to Iraq, meet with Hussein, and tell him that if he steps down as President of Iraq and turns over his WMDs, we'll let him go. Hell, we'll give him a free trip out of Iraq."

"Sir, with all due respect, I think that's a monumentally bad idea," Sarah said, still in shock.

"Agent Walker!" Director Graham snapped.

"No, no, Artie, if one of your best agents thinks it's a bad idea, I want to hear it," the President said, trying to shush Graham with a hand motion. "So, explain, please, Agent Walker?"

"Sir, Hussein has one of the worst track records on human rights and, for that matter, telling the truth, ever. If we allow him to walk off scot-free after everything he's done, the opinion of the world will come crashing down on us. And quite frankly, who's to say he won't try again?"

"What about his WMDs, Agent Walker?"

"Remove them discreetly, sir. It's bad enough that the world thinks he has them. If the Middle East ever finds out that he actually DID, it would tear itself apart in a frenzied panic."

"Well, Agent Walker, that's kind of what Secretary Powell and Dr. Rice have been telling me. The Vice President and Secretary Rumsfeld disagree – they think we should make a public example of the country. I sort of tend to agree."

"Sir, make a public example of Hussein. Capture him, try him, hang him. But don't let the world know he actually had the WMDs."

"I like your way of thinking, Agent Walker. However, I still need somebody to go in there and give him the offer, so that we can say we exhausted every opportunity."

"I'll go, sir, but you'd better have the Marines ready to march into Iraq as soon as I'm done, because he'll know that his time is up the moment I give him the offer."

They spoke for a few more minutes, and then left. Director Graham was silent until the Crown Vic had left the White House grounds.

Finally, he spoke. "What the hell was that all about, Agent Walker? Telling the President that something is a monumentally bad idea?"

She sighed. "May I speak candidly, sir?"

"As always."

"Sir, with respect to the President, he is not an intelligent man. He needs a dissenting voice in his ear, telling him the best course of action. If he doesn't, he'll end up taking the advice of the Vice President and the Secretary of Defense and God knows who else, and five years from now, we'll be mired in Vietnam part two."

Director Graham shook his head. "That's impossible. If we invade, we'll capture Baghdad within a couple months, and we'll be saying 'Mission Accomplished' by Christmas."

He handed her a manila folder. "That's your cover. Study it. Become it. You leave in a week."

* * *

Sarah Walker quickly became Mary McConnell, State Department negotiator. She had her hair cut short, just above the nape of her neck. She began wearing the garb ordinarily worn by female staffers in the Middle East. 

On the March 18th, she flew out of Langley Air Force Base on an unmarked jet. It landed in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, where she was met by the Deputy Chief of Mission from the American Embassy, in addition to a translator. Together, the three moved to a Saudi Air Force Gulfstream, which flew them to Baghdad.

From Saddam Hussein International Airport, a limousine picked them up and took them to the Saudi Embassy, where they would spend the night of the 18th. The 19th would be the day for negotiations.

The morning of March 19th came too early. Sarah rose at 6:00 AM and went through martial arts exercises for half an hour to wake up. Then she headed down to breakfast.

At 8:00 AM, the limo retrieved them from the Saudi Embassy and took them into downtown Baghdad, to the Presidential Palace. The closer they got, the more Sarah felt like she was being surrounded by pure evil.

The streets were quiet. No horns honking, no people on the streets. It just seemed wrong for such a big city to seem so empty.

When they reached the Presidential Palace, they were kept waiting for one hour, two, three. Finally, just after 11:00 AM, an escort of the Republican Guard entered the room they sat in, followed by the man himself – Saddam Hussein.

Sarah rose from her chair, and began to speak. "Mr. President, my name is Mary Mc-"

She was cut off by one of the Republican Guards screaming in Farsi at her. The translator quickly interpreted, "Silence, devil whore. You will not speak until his Greatness has spoken to you."

Sarah looked daggers at the translator, who seemed to shrink into her seat. Being called "devil whore" did not exactly make her day.

Then Hussein himself spoke. In fluent English. With a tone so smooth that he sounded like a snake-oil salesman.

"My apologies, madam," he smarmed. "My guards are a bit… zealous, shall we say?"

He took a seat across the table from Sarah, and indicated that she should follow suit. "Now, shall we begin?"

"Yes, Mr. President," she replied, sitting. "My name is Mary McConnell. I'm with the State Department."

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Ms. McConnell," Hussein replied. "And what message do you carry to me from your President?"

"Simply put, Mr. Hussein, the United States demands that you step down from your post as President of Iraq and turn over your weapons of mass destruction to the International Atomic Energy Agency."

Hussein stared at Sarah for a long moment, making her feel very uncomfortable. When he finally spoke, it was not what she expected.

"You have magnificent breasts, Ms. McConnell."

Sarah's eyes widened, and she blushed. "Excuse me, Mr. President?"

"Magnificent indeed. And such a wonderful body. You have been truly blessed. You would make an excellent concubine."

Sarah was starting to get very aggravated. "Mr. President, no disrespect, but can we please return to the business at hand?"

"This is the business at hand, Ms. McConnell. My guess would be that any man who won the pleasure of a night with you would be quite exhausted the next morning, no?"

Sarah had had it. She stood up, and leaned across the table, not caring that she was staring eye to eye with the man known as the Butcher of Baghdad. "Mr. President, let me make something very clear to you. Republican Guard or no, I know over a hundred ways to turn you into a corpse before they even had the safeties on their weapons turned off."

Implacable, Hussein stared back at her. "So, the President sends a CIA agent to negotiate with me, then? It's quite obvious that that's what you are, Ms. McConnell, if that is indeed your real name."

He rose from the table. The others did the same. "With that knowledge, I now realize that your President was being entirely serious when he posed the same demand publicly earlier in the week. However, now that it has been conveyed to me in person, you may convey my answer back to him in person."

He leaned across the table, and got close enough to Sarah that she could smell his breath.

"No," he hissed. "I will NEVER step down from the Presidency, and should your country be so foolish to oppose me, then the rage of the Arab world shall rain down upon your President, just as the debris rained down upon Manhattan."

And with that, he turned and marched out of the conference room, followed by the Republican Guard.

Sarah was trembling in anger. The Riyadh DCM looked at her with unveiled contempt. "Good job, CIA," he muttered.

"Give me a break," she protested as they departed. "There's no way he was ever going to accept the offer. The President knew it. You knew it."

The DCM didn't say anything. He just ignored her. All the way back to Riyadh.

When Sarah reached Riyadh, she got back on board the CIA jet, and flew back to Langley. Just after taking off, she called Director Graham on the Airfone, and said one word.

"Go."

* * *

_Sarah Walker personally considered her first real assignment to be a failure, but to the administration, it was nothing but a success._

_At 5:34 AM Baghdad time on March 20__th__, 2003, American forces, in addition to forces from several other Coalition nations, invaded Iraq as part of Operation Iraqi Freedom. President Hussein fled Baghdad, and on April 9__th__, the city fell._

_On May 1__st__, 2003, President George W. Bush landed onboard the aircraft carrier USS _Abraham Lincoln_ to declare "Mission Accomplished"._

_Nearly five years later, American forces STILL remain in Iraq, battling what has evolved into a civil insurgency._


	6. The Phantom of Belgrade

_**Author's note:**__ I would like to thank __**brickroad16**__ for coming up with the basic idea for Sarah's mission in this chapter, and for giving me the kind permission to use it. This was a FANTASTIC chapter to write._

* * *

Radomir Bogdanović. 

Stefan Cvijić.

Vladimir Hakopian.

Zoran Klisara.

Boris Panić.

Milan Popović.

Aleksandar Tesla.

Svetozar Vukićević.

The list played over and over in Sarah's head. She was in Belgrade, posing as Natalia Tupolev, photojournalist for the Russian newspaper _Pravda_.

In reality, she was there to find all eight men on her list – six ethnic Serbs, one ethnic Armenian, and one ethnic Croatian, all members of the Yugoslavian parliament gone wild in plotting to overthrow the government – and make sure that they all met an early and unfortunate demise.

After what she had perceived as her failure in Iraq, she had quickly asked for another assignment to try to prove herself. The administration, seeing her mission in Iraq as having been hugely successful, was more than happy to allow Director Graham to send her on this particularly sensitive assignment.

With what was left of Yugoslavia creeping closer and closer to splitting in half and becoming the countries of Montenegro and Serbia, the United States was very interested in ensuring that the Serbian half might want to become a democratic country, and an ally of the US. America needed all the help she could get in what had become a very unpopular war in three short months, and the administration was happy to turn to Serbia.

But right here, right now, Sarah had to make sure that these eight men disappeared for good. The first one was about to meet his demise.

Aleksandar Tesla. Liked to say that he was a distant relative of Nikola Tesla, electrical pioneer. This claim was doubted by many, but given the loss of records in the civil war of the 1990s, there was really no way to refute him.

He was also a pedophile. Sarah had seen pictures of him with pre-adolescent boys that had made her skin crawl and had, on one occasion, made her vomit. However, not only was he a pedophile, but he was one of the group of eight men which considered themselves the new coming of the Nazi party, or as they called themselves, the New Serbian Party.

Tesla was their voice. A skilled public speaker, he made sure that all the people of Serbia knew of the coming revolution, in which the master race would rise up and take Europe once more. His continued existence was not in the best interest of Yugoslavia, or by extension, the United States.

Like almost any other major city in the world, Belgrade had Starbucks. Tesla was currently inside of one, ordering some ultra-expensive, ultra-sugary, ultra-fatty coffee drink. He came outside, sipping on it, and got into his Mercedes SLK. He turned the key –

Sarah could feel the heat of the explosion from where she sat, a block away. The SLK ripped itself apart into millions of tiny pieces, the sound and shockwave reaching Sarah a moment later.

As soon as the fireball receded, Sarah's cover took over. Camera up, she took off running toward the scene.

* * *

Radomir Bogdanović. 

Stefan Cvijić.

Vladimir Hakopian.

Zoran Klisara.

Boris Panić.

Milan Popović.

Svetozar Vukićević.

Zoran Klisara was not as easy a mark to get to. He had immigrated from Croatia as a young boy, and now, as the owner and proprietor of Charlie's Grill – "The best American food in Europe!", they proclaimed – he was constantly surrounded by people.

Sarah's instructions were clear. As little collateral damage as possible.

Blowing Klisara up was out of the question.

So she improvised.

"Charlie's Grill, the best American food in Europe!", she was greeted in English.

In heavily accented English, she said, "You speak Russian?"

"Da," she heard back.

"Excellent," she replied in Russian. "My name is Natalia Tupolev. I'm with_Pravda_ newspaper. I've heard that you have a reputation for having the best American food in Europe, and I was hoping to drop by and have dinner there, so I can do a little write-up for _Pravda_."

She heard the host gasp. "Uh, just a moment please."

There was a ring on the line, and then the phone was picked up again. "This is Zoran Klisara."

"Mr. Klisara," Sarah said, again in Russian, "my name is Natalia Tupolev."

She went through the whole spiel again, and could practically hear the dollar signs registering in Klisara's brain as she spoke. When she finished, he said, "Absolutely, Ms. Tupolev. We would love to have you come in. Would tomorrow night at 7:00 work?"

"Indeed," she replied. "I look forward to it."

Aside from being a restaurateur, Klisara was also an arms dealer. He dealt crap weapons from the former Soviet Union to third world backwaters the world over, and brought top-tier American, French, and Israeli weapons into Yugoslavia. He was currently arming the New Serbian Party for the expected revolution, and it just wouldn't do to have these people performing wholesale slaughter on ethnic Bosnians and Muslims with American weaponry (_or at all_, Sarah thought, but she was keeping her opinion to herself).

And so Sarah arrived at Charlie's Grill the next night at 7:00 PM. She had with her a very simple weapon – a pen with a gas release mechanism. It had been loaded with a vial that contained an extremely deadly nerve agent. All it took to activate the mechanism was a push of the plunger, so Sarah had to be extremely careful with it.

She had to admit, the food was excellent. It was, unquestionably, the best steak she had ever had. In fact, it was better American food than most restaurants in America served.

Toward the end of the meal, she asked if she could speak with Mr. Klisara – she had picked up a copy of his "American cookbook", and wanted him to sign it. He was more than happy to oblige, and she handed him her pen to use. There was no noise, no visible sign, as the gas release mechanism activated.

As Sarah was leaving, there was quite a ruckus. Mr. Klisara had fallen across a guest's table and was not moving. Staying true to her role as a journalist, she got out her camera and documented the event fully.

* * *

Radomir Bogdanović. 

Stefan Cvijić.

Vladimir Hakopian.

Boris Panić.

Milan Popović.

Svetozar Vukićević.

Boris Panić was a very, very bad man. He was believed to have personally ordered the executions of over 50,000 Bosnians and Muslims during the civil war.

And yet, he had somehow escaped the axe that felled Slobodan Milošević and so many others at the Hague. He was now the political power behind the New Serbian Party. He was gaining the support of a large number of right wing politicians, and had proclaimed loudly that Serbia would no longer be a puppet of the East or the West.

That wouldn't necessarily be such a bad thing, either, if Panić didn't do such a convincing imitation of Joseph Goebbels at his worst. Panić had to go.

Sarah had been following him for the last week. She had his routine down to almost a science.

7:30 AM, kiss the wife good-bye. Chauffeur drives him to Parliament.

12:00 PM, lunch with one of the other members of the New Serbian Party.

1:00 PM, quickie with the mistress.

4:30 PM, depart Parliament.

5:00 PM, pick up a hooker.

6:30 PM, dinner.

8:00 PM, back home.

Sarah figured it would be easiest to get him on the drive to Parliament. Wait for a nice day when the windows were open, get him with a silenced sniper rifle from a rooftop along his route.

And so, this particular day in September, the high was already 16 degrees Celsius at 8:00 in the morning. Sarah had foregone a rooftop, instead concealing herself underneath a tarp on top of a tractor trailer parked in a parking lot next to his route.

At 8:02 AM, his BMW 745 went rolling by, slowed by traffic. And sure enough, the back windows were open.

Carefully, Sarah sighted his head in her scope. The rifle was mounted on a swiveling platform so that she could move with him as the car moved.

A light up ahead turned red, and the car came to a stop.

Sarah lined up his left temple in her scope, waited a moment for the wind to calm. As soon as it did, she pulled the trigger –

The bullet impacted his temple just before the chauffeur pressed on the gas to move forward again. The chauffeur didn't even notice.

Ten minutes later, Sarah was three miles away, the rifle safely stowed under the floorboards in the trunk of her Audi. She heard sirens heading in the direction of Parliament, and as Natalia Tupolev was ever the vigilant journalist, she headed that direction.

* * *

Radomir Bogdanović. 

Stefan Cvijić.

Vladimir Hakopian.

Milan Popović.

Svetozar Vukićević.

Radomir Bogdanović and Vladimir Hakopian were two very, very bad men. Radomir, who had grown up in Belgrade, and Vladimir, who had immigrated from Armenia when he was five, had been childhood friends. When they were both teenagers, they began to hang out with the wrong people. By the time they were in their mid-twenties, they were both low level enforcers for what passed as the Mob in Yugoslavia.

They were now both essentially dons of the Serbian Mafia, ruling over organized crime in what was left of Yugoslavia with an iron fist. They were especially reviled among the Muslim population of Serbia, having offered members of the military a $1,000 reward for each Muslim that they could verify that they had killed during the "ethnic cleansing" that took place with the civil war.

That alone was enough to turn Sarah's stomach. However, when she learned what their favorite pastime was – pulling teenage girls off the streets and brutally raping them all night long, before throwing them out on the streets at daybreak – she wanted nothing more than to see them suffer for a very long time before they died.

However, that wasn't practical. So, she went searching.

One day, she encountered two young Muslim girls. They were twins, eighteen, and very pretty. Two years earlier, their older sister had been taken by Bogdanović and Hakopian. She had been found three days later, facedown in the beautiful blue Danube.

She asked the girls how they would like to pay the two men back for what they had done to their sister. The girls informed Sarah that they would like nothing better than to visit the wrath of the Almighty upon the two men.

And so, Sarah had procured two Uzis, with two hundred rounds of ammunition each. She had given them to the girls, and told them to hide them under their clothing. She then drove them to a Charlie's Grill, where Bogdanović and Hakopian were dining. Sarah told them to wait by the Cadillac Fleetwood limousine in the parking lot.

About fifteen minutes later, Bogdanović and Hakopian exited the restaurant. Needless to say, they were pleased to find their entertainment for that evening waiting for them on the hood of the limousine. With what they thought was smooth talk, they got the girls into the limousine with them. As soon as the doors shut, however…

Sarah heard a muffled cry of "Allahu akbar!" followed by gunfire. A moment later, one of the doors opened, and the two girls got out, running down the street.

Sarah intercepted them two blocks over, and took the guns from them so that they wouldn't be found by the police. She then drove them back home.

They thanked her for giving them the opportunity to avenge their sister, and said that Allah would surely look upon her with favor. Sarah didn't have the heart to tell them that she didn't believe in God anymore.

And then, like the good photojournalist that Natalia Tupolev was, she turned around and drove back to Charlie's Grill.

* * *

Stefan Cvijić. 

Milan Popović.

Svetozar Vukićević

The remaining three members of the New Serbian Party were running scared. They were going to be a tough nut to crack. However, Popović was single, which Sarah planned to use to her advantage.

Just not quite yet. She wanted to go after Stefan Cvijić first. A retired colonel, he had a huge amount of sway with the Army, and would probably use that to his advantage in the event of a coup.

He had no particular routine, and had taken to being very paranoid as of late. However, Sarah came up with a fairly imaginative plan to take him down.

Posing as a sewer engineer, she had managed to run three lines up through the sewer – and into his toilet. One was a fiber optic camera, the other was a small hose, and the third was a modified spark plug. They were tiny and painted white so that he would never notice them, flush against the back wall of his toilet.

Through the camera, Sarah learned that he did have one routine. As disgusting as it was, watching him every afternoon did serve its purpose.

One day, about an hour before he got home from work, she uncapped the end of the hose – allowing methane gas to begin flowing from the sewer into his toilet. When he arrived home, she saw him wrinkle his nose through the camera, but he sat down anyway.

"Good-bye, Colonel Cvijić," she whispered, and activated the spark plug. There was a brief flash, and then her camera went dark.

Leaving the lines where they were, she went about a mile down the sewers before evacuating. When she came out, she could see a plume of smoke rising in the distance. Getting in her rented pickup truck, she drove back to her hotel and cleaned herself up, then, ever the vigilant photojournalist, Natalia Tupolev headed for the scene of the explosion.

* * *

Milan Popović. 

Svetozar Vukićević

Svetozar Vukićević was a union organizer. He had spent the better part of the last year whipping his constituents into a frenzy over the influx of immigrants into Belgrade, insisting that the New Serb would rise above and create a new master race.

Even before his comrades had begun to drop like flies, he'd been very well protective. Now, though, he might as well have been the President of the United States, for all the protection he had around him.

However, no matter how much protection a man has, he is always still vulnerable somehow. Sarah just had to figure out that "somehow" and exploit it.

The answer turned out to be insanely simple. Through sources, Sarah discovered that Vukićević was deathly allergic to peanuts. He lived in a secured penthouse on the top floor of a high rise – but it didn't have an isolated HVAC system.

Posing as an HVAC engineer, Sarah went to the roof of the high rise, and figured out which HVAC unit went to the penthouse. Opening it, she reached into her toolbox, pulled out a jar of peanuts, and dumped them into the fan. They splintered as they hit the fan blade, and were then promptly shot directly into the vents for Vukićević's penthouse.

Closing her toolbox, Sarah departed the building, and nobody was the wiser.

The next day, there was a small item on the front page of the paper saying that Svetozar Vukićević had been alone in his apartment, and out of nowhere, gone into anaphylactic shock and suffocated. Sarah was disappointed that Natalia Tupolev hadn't been there to document the event, but she figured that that would've been pushing her luck.

* * *

Milan Popović. 

Milan Popović was the head of the New Serbian Party – its Hitler. He was not an unattractive man, in his late thirties, a poster boy for the "master race" if ever there was one. If that wasn't bad enough, he had been known as a protégé of Slobodan Milosević, the "Butcher of Belgrade".

His inclination toward the "master race" something Sarah planned to use to her advantage, because at 5'9", with blonde hair, blue eyes, a physically fit form, and a 36C-25-37 figure, she could be a poster girl for said "master race".

She knew that Popović liked women who looked like her – he commonly appeared in tabloids with one of them on his arm.

Sarah just had to become that woman on his arm. And so, it was time to pose as Natalia Tupolev – one last time.

She had spoken to Popović by phone and had gotten him to agree to an interview over dinner. While dressing for the interview, she had to force herself not to conceal any weapons – this was going to be a situation where she was going to have to put her Sparrow School training to the test.

The only weapons she did take were two long and deadly looking hairpins, dipped in ricin. The ricin was surprisingly easy to come by, but she had to remind herself that she WAS in a former Eastern Bloc country, and the Soviet Union was long rumored to have used it in many different applications.

Dinner was surprisingly pleasant, even as Sarah had to force herself not to choke on the knowledge that this man thought that anybody who didn't look like him should be eliminated. As smooth as a perfect sheet of glass, she had him convinced by the end of dinner that he should take her home to his place – past the security, past the guards.

Once they reached his house, both of them found themselves undressed in fairly short order. Sarah did have one moment of alarm, when Popović decided it would be amusing to use her hairpins as handlebars – but that quickly changed from alarm to disgust and annoyance. However, she didn't let it disrupt what she was doing.

Using everything she had learned in Monterey, she had Popović in bed before he knew what was going on, and took him to heights of ecstasy that he loudly declared he had never been to before. Then, as he was in the midst of climax, Sarah reached behind her head, removed the hairpins, shook her hair free – and savagely stabbed the hairpins deep into his chest.

The ricin was completely unnecessary, as the hairpin in her right hand penetrated his heart. The final look on his face was one of shock.

Sarah climbed off of him, closed his eyes, and dressed him in his pajamas. With luck, nobody would realize that he was dead for hours to come.

Putting her hair back up with the hairpins, she dressed, and walked out of the house, with nary a peep from a security guard. Driving back to the hotel, she collected her camera, and only her camera, and then drove to Nikola Tesla Airport, where she caught the Aeroflot redeye to Moscow.

Upon arriving in Moscow, she purchased a copy of _Pravda_ – "Ironic," she muttered as she did so – and saw that Milan Popović was, indeed, very dead. She caught a cab to the American Embassy, walked in the front door, and informed the duty clerk that she had a blue jay delivery.

The clerk called it into the Deputy Chief of Mission, who was downstairs within ten minutes. Sarah was given a place to sleep that night, and the first thing the next morning, she was put on the American Airlines direct flight to Dulles Airport.

* * *

Director Graham looked over the photographs. "You did very well, Agent Walker," he commented. 

"I don't know, sir," she replied, shaking her head. "I don't feel like it should've taken a month."

Graham looked at her with curiosity. "Sarah, I don't understand you sometimes. The fact that you took down eight rogue members of a foreign government in a month's time, and nobody ever suspected you one bit – that's unbelievable. It's unprecedented, unheard of. Not even the Israeli team that went after the 1972 Olympic terrorists worked that fast – and you were by yourself!"

Sarah shrugged. "Just my job, sir."

Graham nodded. "Just your job, indeed. You should know, Agent Walker, that you'll be receiving an Intelligence Star for this action. It will be classified, and won't be made public for twenty-five years, but the intelligence community will know."

Finally, Sarah cracked a smile. "Thank you, sir. I appreciate the acknowledgment."

Graham smiled back. "Job well done, Agent Walker. Take a week off, and when you come back, report directly to me. I've got another job in mind for you."


	7. Killing In the Name Of

_Okay, I'll admit, this chapter is a lot fluffy and a little angsty. But that's okay - after a chapter like the last chapter, I think Sarah deserves a bit of a break from being a full time badass._

_Also, she does go a little bit nuts while working out to the sounds of a Rage Against the Machine song, so beware a couple occurrences of the F-bomb._

* * *

Sarah Walker was in a foul mood.

When she came back from Belgrade, Director Graham had told her that he'd have a new assignment for her a week later.

Over a month, and still nothing. Seems that one of the Serbians she'd killed – mob boss Radomir Bogdanović – had been a contact for the National Security Agency.

When she was informed of the situation, she had angrily replied that quite frankly, she could give a flying fuck. He'd been an evil individual, and she'd been ordered to eliminate him. She'd done her job, and she had damn well done it well. But as a result, she'd been raked over the coals and been dragged before a Congressional committee, with the NSA (completely unfairly, in her opinion) insisting on attaching an addendum to her newly awarded Intelligence Star.

Right now, she was in the gym at the CIA's Langley facility, stretching and warming up, and hoping to work out some of her aggression. Another agent had loaned Sarah her new digital music player – "These new iPods are amazing," she'd said – and told Sarah that every song on it was perfect for letting go of some aggression to.

Sarah quickly scrolled through the playlist. She didn't really recognize anything, having almost exclusively listened to 60s and 70s music up to this point. So, she selected the "shuffle all" option and decided to let the iPod take her where it would.

The first song that came up was perfect. It opened with a solid drum hit, which she matched with a kick to a punching bag. It was followed by a similar hit every four beats, until it started in on a little guitar riff that was perfect for boxing with the punching bag.

Sarah was just starting to get into a rhythm when the music stopped, and a distorted voice said, "_Killing in the name of!_"

Then a new riff, and a new rhythm came in. It was even better.

For the next five minutes, Sarah danced around the punching bag, beating the shit out of it as Rage Against the Machine basically told the story of her time in the CIA – "You're under control, and now you do what they told ya!"

The song was very repetitive, and toward the end of it, Sarah even found herself muttering the lyrics along with it. But it was the end of the song where she really got to let loose.

The first time she heard the line, she was mildly shocked. But every time it repeated, she let loose on the punching bag, and by the end of it, she was screaming it out loud along with Tom Morello – "FUCK YOU, I WON'T DO WHAT YOU TELL ME!"

When Morello let loose his final, "Motherfucker!", Sarah just released a scream of primal rage and bicycle-kicked the punching bag. The chains holding the bag to its frame snapped, and it whipped end over end through the room, slamming into the wall and bursting open.

When the song ended, she heard somebody say, very quietly, "Uh, Agent Walker?"

She whirled around, murder in her eyes. "WHAT!"

It was Director Graham's assistant, a woman who, though in reality about Sarah's age, was as meek as a high school student. Her eyes widened, and she looked like she wanted to shrink into the floor.

"Uh, Director Graham wants to see you," she practically whispered, and then made a beeline out of the gym.

Sarah stormed out of the gym, hot on the assistant's tail. Dressed in her workout gear, she blew through the halls of the complex like Hurricane Andrew, leaving a trail of somewhat frightened people in her path. One analyst was bold enough to actually send a whistle in her direction, and the look she gave him when she turned would have, had it been physical, impaled him against the floor.

Sarah arrived on the administrative floor with all the subtlety of a bull in a china shop. At least one administrative assistant literally cowered in fear as Sarah went marching past, the door of Director Graham's office her immediate objective.

Blazing directly past Graham's assistant, who was sitting at her desk and meekly objecting, "You can't just walk in," Sarah slammed the door open, and parked herself directly in front of Graham's desk.

Most men would've been startled by the door slamming open in the fashion in which it did. Most men would've been even more perturbed to turn around and find an insane-looking woman, clad in workout gear, hair askew, and fingerless sparring gloves still on her hands, standing on the other side of their desk.

Not Director Graham. He turned around, and very calmly said, "Thank you for coming so quickly, Agent Walker. Would you care to sit?"

"Not particularly," she grated.

"Well then. How would you feel about a new assignment?"

Before she could stop herself, she had sarcastically uttered, "Well, it's about goddamn time."

Director Graham raised an eyebrow. "Agent Walker, you might want to consider how close to the edge of insubordination you are right now."

She sighed, but it came out sounding more like a growl. "Director Graham, with respect, I have been sitting around here for the last month while those brainless shits at the National Security Agency have villainized me for efficiently carrying out a mission that was _personally authorized by the President_! Please, give me ONE good reason why I should not be frustrated!"

Director Graham didn't say anything, but instead, just tossed a folder on the desk. Sarah looked at it, then picked it up. The anger began to melt from her face, being replaced with the barest hints of a smile.

"Is this for real?"

"You leave at midnight tonight, Agent Walker."

* * *

Sarah was back at her apartment, a few hours before she had to leave. As she was packing, she grew rather hungry. Picking up the phone to order a pizza, she heard a curious set of clicks. It took her a moment to place it. When she realized, her eyes widened.

"Son of a BITCH!"

She went outside, to the telephone junction box on the exterior of the apartment building. Yep, there, attached to the line for apartment, was a transmitter. Running back into her apartment, she got a signal tracking device, and then held it up to the transmitter. The signal was going to…

That blue Dodge van across the street.

Murder in her eyes, she stormed across the street, and wrenched open the back door of the van, revealing two geek types sitting in front of a set of surveillance equipment. They both looked at her like deer in the headlights.

"You have ten seconds to tell me who you are," she growled, drawing her gun.

"NSA! We're NSA!" one of them shouted as soon as her gun cleared the holster.

Sarah shook her head. "Get out."

The two quickly complied. Sarah went around to the driver's door of the van, turned the key in the ignition, and then put the van in neutral. She released the handbrake and jumped out.

The street she lived on had a downward slope, so the van started rolling, picking up speed – down toward the Georgetown Pike. She watched in grim satisfaction as it rolled out into the street, where it was nailed by a semi. Total loss, instantly, as the truck screeched to a halt.

The two NSA analysts stood in the street behind her, heads in their hands, looks of utter shock and despair on their faces. She stalked back over to them.

"Give a message to your bosses," she hissed. "Do NOT fuck with me!"

* * *

Sarah was met by the CIA Station Chief for Johannesburg when she landed at OR Tambo International Airport. He had a rather amused smile on his face the instant he saw her.

"Welcome to South Africa. Director Graham would like you to call in right away," he informed her, handing her a cell phone.

Dialing zero and then the code to call the United States, she waited while the call was patched through. Finally, Director Graham answered.

"Agent Walker," he rumbled when she identified herself. "The National Security Agency is not very happy with you."

"The National Security Agency god damn well shouldn't have been tapping my phone –"

"Which I have already told them," he interrupted. "You should know that I have told them that I have no intentions of holding you responsible for what happened. However, the only reason I can get away with that is because there was no loss of manpower. You did destroy about a hundred thousand dollars worth of equipment."

"Which shouldn't have been parked outside my apartment ANYWAY."

"I KNOW that, Agent Walker. I'm just saying, you need to get a handle on your anger. I can't have you turning into the Hulk every time you go a month without an assignment, because it's going to happen more often than not."

She sighed. "Yes, sir."

* * *

Sarah's assignment was to work with the South African National Intelligence Agency, because they were having a little problem with a missing nuclear bomb. It seemed that a general in the South African Air Force had gone rogue and sold the bomb to a little group known as Hamas.

Naturally, this made Israel a little nervous, and when Israel got nervous, the United States tended to get nervous. The bomb was believed to still be in South Africa, and it had been made quite clear that the consequences would be dire if Hamas actually managed to get the thing into Palestine.

She had been assigned to work with Agents Markus Sobukwe and Piers de Klerk – "No relation to the former President," he made clear upon introducing himself.

"So," Sarah started, sitting down in a Starbucks – _What else?_ she thought – with the two NIA agents. "This bomb. Where did it disappear from, when did it disappear, and what possible motivation could the general have?"

"Motivation is easy," Sobukwe replied. "General Nelson Herzog's an anti-Semite bastard. The jackass truly thinks that Hitler had the right ideas."

"Christ," Sarah uttered, unable to stop herself. "Are these morons everywhere?"

The two agents looked at her curiously. "What do you mean?" de Klerk asked.

"Just a little, um, encounter I had in Belgrade," she replied, trying to obfuscate.

They both looked a little more closely at her, then at each other. "No," Sobukwe said. "It can't be."

De Klerk turned and looked at Sarah. "Please, please tell me that you're the person responsible for those New Serbian Party lunatics being sent to meet the Lord."

Sarah felt like her heart had stopped. She started to stutter. "I, um, um, I can't, um, confirm or deny…"

Their eyes went wide. "Hot damn!" Sobukwe exclaimed. "We are in the presence of an intelligence legend!"

"How did you find them?"

"How'd you poison Klisara like that?"

"Did you really seduce Popović and stab him in the heart while he was in the middle of an orgasm?"

"ENOUGH!" Sarah roared, slamming her hands down on the table and propelling herself to her full 5'9" height. The men practically shrank, clearly intimidated.

She took a deep breath and sat back down. "The two of you are supposed to be professional intelligence agents. That being the case, you SHOULD know better. So, let me ask you this right now. Do you want my autograph, or DO YOU WANT TO FIND THE FUCKING NUKE!"

Neither of them spoke for a moment, but finally de Klerk spoke up softly. "If we find the 'fucking nuke', can I get your autograph afterwards?"

Despite herself, something about the way de Klerk said it got to Sarah, and a smile managed to find its way to her face. "Let's just concentrate on one thing at a time, shall we?"

* * *

The lax security at Waterkloof Air Force Base was absolutely astonishing to Sarah. What was even more astonishing was to learn that General Herzog had driven a Hummer right up to the nuclear storage bunker, had the technicians on duty load a fifty-kiloton air-burst weapon into the vehicle, and then driven away into the night, without a single word from anybody.

A week had gone by, with no luck finding the bomb, or General Herzog. Sarah was starting to get worried. This had much larger implications than just the future of her career – if Hamas got their hands on a nuclear bomb, the Middle East would simply be done. There would be no saving it.

Sarah had tried to look at the week in a positive fashion. She was developing a good rapport with the two agents. However, she was also, though she refused to admit it to herself, developing somewhat of a soft spot for Piers de Klerk.

She discovered that he'd been born in Cape Town, six months before she had, but that he'd grown up in Houston. As a result, when he'd moved back with his parents at the age of sixteen, his Texas accent had blended with the South African accent in a way that made his voice sound very interesting indeed. Sometimes he'd say something that sounded downright British, and then follow it up with a "y'all".

Sobukwe ribbed him about it mercilessly, and sometimes Sarah would join in on it. Not that she had any room to talk – despite being fluent in fourteen languages, her English still had a distinct Boston accent. She was working on that, though.

Every so often, when one of the three had said something to make the others laugh, Sarah would look up and catch de Klerk looking at her. When she made eye contact with him, his eyes would light up for a moment, and then, embarrassed, he would look away.

On the eighth morning she was there, she woke up having slept on her neck wrong. She must have pinched a nerve or something, because it hurt like hell. She mentioned that while poring over more (and useless) intelligence on General Herzog.

"There's really not much you can do about it," Sobukwe said. "I know this, because it happens to me all the time. Usually when I go to bed drunk."

Sarah laughed, and even the laughter caused her pain. "Owww," she groaned, reaching up to rub her neck.

"Here," de Klerk said, walking around to stand behind her. "My grandmother taught me this technique that she learned during World War II."

He put his fingertips on Sarah's neck, and began very gently moving them around – almost as if his fingers were dancing on her neck. She could feel him applying just the slightest bit of pressure at certain points – and amazingly enough, it actually began to work.

About fifteen minutes later, her neck was still sore, but there were no more shooting pains. "Thank you," she said softly. Reaching up to her neck, she put her hand on de Klerk's. It rested there for a moment before he pulled away and walked back around the table. Looking up at him, she could see that he had turned bright red.

He took a moment to compose himself, and just as he was about to say something, his phone rang. Frowning, he pulled it out of his pocket. "De Klerk."

His eyes widened, and he motioned for a pen and a piece of paper. Sobukwe stood up and gave both to him. As he wrote furiously in Afrikaans, his eyes lit up. "Yes. Yes. Detain him immediately. Thank you."

De Klerk hung up, his eyes on fire. "Herzog was spotted, in a military Hummer, at a truck stop fifty kilometers from the Zimbabwe border. Local police are on the way."

"How far away from us?" Sarah asked.

De Klerk looked at what he'd written down, and then at a map. "Ummm… an hour's drive?"

"Then why don't we get out there," she said. "We need to verify that the nuke is actually in the Hummer."

He grimaced. "Dammit. That's a good point. Alright… uh, crap. All I've got is my Tacoma, and that only seats two."

"No worries," Sobukwe said with a grin. "I'll get a car from the motor pool."

He winked at Sarah as he passed her on the way out the door.

As Sobukwe exited the room, de Klerk turned behind him, opened a cabinet, and removed something. "Here," he said, turning and handing it to Sarah.

A gun and a holster. "I can't," she replied. "I'm a foreign intelligence agent. I can get into huge amounts of trouble if I'm caught carrying a weapon here."

Piers de Klerk looked at the ceiling and sighed. "Sarah Walker, I hereby deputize you as a provisional agent of the National Intelligence Agency until such time as this deputization is revoked."

Sarah was shocked. "I don't think you can do that!"

"I just did," he replied. "Now are you going to take the gun, or not?"

She took the gun.

* * *

The ride from Pretoria had been silent. They were about halfway to the town of Swartruggens when de Klerk spoke.

"Listen," he said. "I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable back there."

Sarah shook her head. "I'm just not sure of the legality of it all," she replied. "If the CIA has a problem with it… well, let's just say that there are already certain other parts of the American intelligence community who would like to see me go down."

"Why!" de Klerk blurted. "From everything I've seen, you're one of the best agents they've got!"

She smiled slightly. "Thank you. But… well, it's political."

"Well, screw that!" he replied. "That's just… that's… completely asinine!"

Sarah laughed. "It is… but you know, I'm not quite sure I understand why you care so much about whether or not a foreign intelligence agent gets into trouble."

It was a loaded question, and she knew it. He didn't seem to recognize it, though, as his mouth overrode his brain, and he said, "Because I like you, Agent Walker, and I think…"

His brain caught up to his mouth at that point. "Um, I mean, I like you as a person… and… well… oh, to hell with it. I like you. There. I said it. That's why I deputized you, too. I care about you, and I want you to be able to protect yourself if the need should rise."

Sarah looked downward. For as bumbling as de Klerk had just been about his admission of his feelings for her, it was also probably the most sincere and true admission she'd ever heard. Of course, that put the ball squarely in her court.

"Piers," she said softly. "I like you too. I think you're a really nice guy, and you can do something which a lot of people can't do, and that's make me laugh."

She paused. "Uh-oh," he said. "I hear a 'but' coming."

Sarah sighed. "The only 'but' is this – I've never been good with relationships. I'm horrible at them. I went through high school like a bat out of hell, and truthfully, Piers, it's less painful for me to avoid them. Part of my job is seduction, and I don't know if I can handle the pain."

Piers de Klerk gripped the steering wheel of his Toyota Tacoma and stared at the road ahead. He didn't say anything for a moment – and then, he slammed on the brakes, jerking the Tacoma off the side of the road.

He threw the gearshift into park, and then turned to look at Sarah. "I… I… I don't… I don't care, Sarah."

And with that, he put his hand behind her neck, pulled her to him, and kissed her. Sarah's eyes went wide with shock, but she didn't pull away. Instead, she closed her eyes, and allowed herself to sink into the kiss, raising her hand to de Klerk's cheek. It seemed to go on for an eternity – but it had only been a few seconds when his phone rang.

"God dammit," he muttered, pulling away. He pulled out the phone. "De Klerk."

He listened. "You've got him? AND the nuke?"

A smile lit up his face. "Fantastic. We'll be there in fifteen minutes."

He hung up, and put the truck into drive. His wheels spun momentarily in the roadside gravel, before he finally fishtailed out into the road. He didn't look at Sarah, didn't say anything –

So he was surprised, and very pleased, when she reached out her hand and put it on top of the one he had on the gearshift.

* * *

Sarah was in South Africa for two more days. She spent a good chunk of that time interrogating General Herzog, and a pretty significant chunk of time being debriefed by the NIA.

The rest of her time, she got to see a little bit of South Africa, with a friendly local by the name of Piers de Klerk acting as her tour guide.

They were both a little disappointed to have to part, but e-mail certainly made things easy. Sarah also decided that maybe, just maybe, it was time for her to get a cell phone.

When she got back to Langley, she went directly to see Director Graham. As she walked into his office, he noticed a significant change in her attitude.

"Agent Walker," he said. "You're no longer massively pissed at the world in general, I see."

"No sir," she replied. "I guess I really took what you said to heart. I can't get mad about every little thing and lose control."

He nodded his head. "That, and you got laid, right?"

Her eyes went wide. "How… how the hell?"

Graham smiled. "Walker, I've been an intelligence officer for my entire adult life. I can tell by watching you if you got laid, if your favorite TV show got cancelled, if you got drunk last night – hell, I can usually tell if people change the brand of toilet paper they use."

Sarah nodded. "Well… creepy, but alright then."

Director Graham laughed. "You did well again, Walker. Certainly no Intelligence Star for this one, but a good job nonetheless. Take a few days off, and I PROMISE I'll have a new assignment for you this time."

"Thank you, sir."

Sarah Walker was in an excellent mood.


	8. Czech Me Out

Sarah didn't have a new assignment right away after Johannesburg. In fact, it was a few weeks before she got a new one. But that was okay.

On December 20th, she had returned to her apartment, and discovered that it had been entered. This wouldn't have been clear to the untrained eye, but the tells that she had left had been changed. So, she entered the apartment, gun drawn, to find…

Piers de Klerk sitting on her couch. The gun went away quickly.

It seemed that he had managed to somehow get himself a temporary duty assignment to the South African Embassy. "Only two weeks," he said, "but by some sort of coincidence, that just happens to encompass Christmas and New Year's."

Sarah had a very merry Christmas and a happy New Year indeed. She considered taking Piers up to Boston to meet her father, but decided that explaining that would be more work than she could deal with just then. On top of that, she wasn't sure how he'd feel about her having a…_boyfriend_, she thought in amazement, from another country.

On January 3rd, 2004, Piers left to return to Johannesburg. On January 4th, Sarah received a new assignment.

"We're assigning you to a multi-agency task force," Director Graham informed her. "It seems there's a group of former KGB agents who live in Prague. They're receiving opium products from the Taliban, which they're selling to U.S. markets. They're using the money from that to purchase old Soviet weapons, which they are in turn shipping to the Taliban, which distributes them to Al Qaeda, the Iraqi insurgency, Hamas, and so on and so forth.

"You'll be working with the Drug Enforcement Administration and the National Security Agency," Graham continued. "I don't think you've met the NSA agent before, but I believe you're acquainted with the DEA agent – one Carina Hansen?"

Sarah's eyebrows went up. "You could say that."

"Well, then. It's good you already know her, because the NSA agent is a bit of a loose cannon. He's a pilot that they plucked out of the Air Force right after he received his commission, Captain John Casey. Be careful around him. He tends to go a bit overboard from time to time."

"Yes, sir."

* * *

Sarah's instructions upon arriving in Prague were simple – check in to your hotel, make contact with Agent Hansen and Captain Casey, and stay put until you receive further orders.

She had done the first, and was now attempting to do the second. She was outside Carina's door, knocking. Nothing, nothing, and then…

Sarah heard what sounded faintly like somebody struggling against something and trying to speak through a gag. This was not good.

She backed away from the door, took a deep breath, and planted her foot against the door right above the latch as hard as she could. The strike plate burst out of the door frame, and the door flew open. Sarah dived to the floor and rolled in, gun drawn. She leapt to her feet, to find…

A man in his early thirties, handcuffed to the bed, clad only in black socks, a USAF t-shirt, and boxers with four-leaf clovers on them 

Sarah couldn't help but laugh. "You must be John Casey," she smirked.

He glared daggers back at her, unable to really say anything.

Then she heard the unmistakable click of a safety being disengaged. Whirling around, gun up, she screamed, "DON'T MOVE!"

Carina Hansen looked back at her. "Oh, it's just you," Carina said. "I see you've met Captain Casey."

"You could say that," Sarah replied. "What exactly happened here?"

Casey started struggling against the handcuffs. He made noises that sounded distinctly like, "DON'T YOU DARE SAY A WORD!"

Carina looked at him, shrugged, looked back at Sarah, and said, "My idea of casual sex is a little rougher than Captain Casey's."

Sarah looked at her in disbelief. "Is that your idea of what you're supposed to be doing on this mission? Sleeping with another agent?"

"Oh, come on, Sarah," Carina shot back. "Don't be such a hypocrite. The global intelligence community is FAR too small for you to get away with your little liaison with… what's his name, de Klerk?"

Sarah narrowed her eyes. "Yes, but I didn't sleep with him until AFTER the mission was over."

Carina rolled her eyes. "Whatever. It's not like it's affecting our mission."

Sarah shook her head. "I'm pretty sure that handcuffing an agent to a bed might affect the mission!"

Carina sighed. "Why are you being such a drag, Sarah?"

"I'm being a drag!" Sarah asked. "Well, I'm so sorry if I'm not the happy-go-lucky, horny-as-hell, needs-it-all-the-time, oh so philanthropically donates a month of her time to the Sparrow School each year agent that you are, CARINA."

Carina's eyes narrowed. "What are you saying about me?"

Sarah cocked an eyebrow. "I believe you know exactly what I'm saying."

"Say it, Agent Walker. Just say the word."

"I'm pretty sure you've already figured it out."

"JUST GODDAMN SAY IT!"

"YOU'RE A SLUT!"

Carina gritted her teeth. "You bitch."

Sarah nodded. "Whore."

And Carina hauled off and socked Sarah square in the nose. She staggered backward, but putting a hand on the frame of the bed, launched herself back forward, tackling Carina with what could only amount to a war cry.

Carina went down, but with a handful of Sarah's hair. The two women rolled around on the floor, each struggling to get the upper hand.

Meanwhile, John Casey was struggling to sit up in the bed, trying to get a better view. He had an enormous smile on his face.

Finally, after about five minutes of this, Sarah landed a good kick to Carina's gut, knocking the wind out of her. Sarah rolled away and stood up, breathing heavily.

Carina slowly got to her feet, using the bed frame to help her up. She looked over at Sarah, then looked down at Casey – and a smile reappeared on her face, her eyebrows climbing.

"Oh, Johnny, did watching that fight get you all worked up down there?"

Sarah rolled her eyes. "Jesus Christ."

She turned and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

* * *

Half an hour later, Sarah was joined in the hotel lobby by Carina and Casey – both now fully dressed. In the interim, she had called Director Graham to report what was going on to him – and though he had sighed in disgust, he told her to just live with it. "There's more important things at stake here, Walker."

Carina's eyes glittered with a certain amount of contempt as she stared at Sarah. "Let's go, Walker," she snapped. Sarah sighed and stood up, following Carina and Casey to the parking garage.

"May I ask where exactly we're going?" Sarah inquired as they got into Carina's Mercedes ML55.

"We're going to go stake out the operations center for this group of former KGB thugs," Carina replied. That was all she said. No further explanation.

The ride was silent as they drove through Prague. When a white Lexus limousine passed them going the other direction, though, Carina's eyes grew wide, and she breathed, "No way…"

"Was that them!" Casey exclaimed, practically straining out of his seatbelt.

Without answering, Carina yanked up the handbrake, jerking the wheel around to the left. The ML55 spun around in a one hundred eighty degree arc, creating havoc on the roadway. Releasing the brake, Carina hit the gas, speeding after the Lexus.

"Would somebody mind telling me what's going on?" Sarah asked from the backseat.

"We're not going to their ops center," Casey replied excitedly. "That's them in that Lexus!"

Carina floored it, flying down the boulevard behind the Lexus. In fairly short order, the driver clearly realized what was going on.

"Nice driving there, Carina," Sarah said sarcastically as the Lexus turned down a side street. "Way to stay inconspicuous."

"Walker, SHUT UP," the DEA agent spat. Casey struggled to lean out the window, aiming his gun at the limo's rear tires.

The Lexus began to swerve back and forth across the street, throwing off Casey's aim. However, he finally got off a couple of good shots, and the limo's rear tires both deflated and began to shred. The limo slowed rapidly, with Carina having to stand on the brakes to keep from rear-ending it.

"Stay in the car, Walker," Casey said as the two other agents jumped out.

"Stay in the – what the hell!" she said, but they were already out, approaching the car, guns drawn.

The back doors of the limo burst open, two men jumping out with submachine guns. Casey and Carina both dove for cover behind the ML55 as the two men sprayed randomly.

"Oh, to hell with this," Sarah said as the windshield of the ML55 shattered. Pulling her gun up, she aimed out the front, shot, aimed again, shot again. Both men dropped to the ground, dead.

She climbed out of the Mercedes as Carina and Casey approached the back doors of the Lexus again. Sarah covered them as they pulled three very frightened looking large Russian men out of the back seats.

"Greetings,_tovarisch_," Casey said with a smirk on his face.

He looked up at Casey. "John Casey," he said slowly, in heavily accented English. "You're a dead man."

"Oh, I don't think so, Pasha," Casey replied.

Then the driver's door of the Lexus burst open. The driver flew out, and before any of the three agents had time to draw their guns, he had clambered into Carina's ML55, and was driving away down the street.

"Oh, hell," Carina sighed. Reaching in her pocket, she pulled out a remote, and pressed the panic button. The rear end of the ML55 fireballed, flipping it end over end, until it crashed into a burning heap in the middle of the street.

"THAT's why you were told to stay in the car, Walker," Carina hissed. "I'm sick of having cars stolen and then having to blow them up."

"Oh, well, EXCUSE me," Sarah retorted. "But the two of you both would've been DEAD if not for me."

Casey looked at Carina. "She's got a point."

Carina glared back at him. "Casey, shut UP, or no more sex."

Casey's eyes widened. He shrugged and looked back at Sarah. "Sorry, Walker. You're on your own on this one."

Sarah shook her head. "You're a real inspiration, Captain Casey."

* * *

Sarah sat on the bed in Carina's hotel room, trying not to think about the things that had transpired on it. Of course, as distasteful as those were, what was going on in the bathroom was even more distasteful.

Casey was practicing a technique on the Russians that Sarah was pretty sure was banned by every international treaty ever. He would pour water on their face until they almost couldn't breathe anymore, and then stop. When they still refused to talk, he would go back to it. He called it "waterboarding", and Sarah was completely repulsed by it.

"How can he just sit in there and do that to a human being?" she mused, not realizing she was talking out loud.

Carina overheard her. "Are you nuts, Walker?" she asked. "Those guys are helping arm Al Qaeda, Hamas, the Iraq insurgents – how is what we're doing bad?"

Sarah shook her head. "I know that we need the information, but it seems like there's other ways of getting it," she said, frustrated.

"Believe me, there's not," Carina replied. "I've tried."

Sarah looked over at her. _Of course she has._

Finally, Casey came out of the bathroom. "He cracked."

"Do we need the other two?" Carina asked.

"I don't think so," Casey replied. "I got just about everything I need out of Pasha."

"Alright. I'll take care of them."

Sarah covered her ears. "I am so not hearing this."

Casey looked at her. "Whatever, CIA. Do what you've got to do to maintain plausible deniability, or whatever it is you spooks call it."

She looked up at him. "How am I a spook and you're not?"

"I'm a real agent," he spat back. "I'm actually willing to get my hands dirty when need be. You spooks, you just put together your little pieces of information, and then blow people up from a safe distance."

Sarah couldn't believe what she was hearing. Standing up, she crossed the room to Casey, and before he knew it, she had him pinned against the wall, her arm on his throat.

"Let me ask you something, Captain Casey," she hissed. "Have you heard about last September, the Belgrade Eight?"

"What about 'em?"

Her brain screamed,_No, don't do it!_ However, she refused to let Casey run roughshod over her.

"That was ME, you ass."

Casey's eyes widened. "Holy crap."

Carina had a look of shock on her face. "Jesus, Sarah, I didn't know you had it in you."

"I've apparently been underestimated," she said quietly, releasing Casey.

* * *

They spent the next two weeks dragging as much information out of the three former KGB men as they could. When they were done, at Sarah's insistence, they dumped them on the doorstep of a Prague police station with a DVD that contained all three of them confessing to numerous and varied crimes against the Czech people.

Using the information they had gotten, they spent a good amount of time after that going after the network that the KGB men had built in Prague. One at a time, they took down their contacts, their cutouts, their middle-men. On February 18th, they took down the last man.

The three agents decided a little bit of celebration might be in order.

A bar was found, and toasts were made. The three of them were effusive in their praise of one another.

"I should never have called you 'just a spook', Walker," Casey said.

"You're damn straight," Sarah replied.

"Don't get a big head," Carina warned her. "Casey's like this with everybody when he's been meeting with Jack, Jim, or Jose."

"Ah, the three wise men," Sarah mused.

"Exactly."

In the background, Sarah could hear what seemed to be a very familiar synthesizer tune playing. "Hey, I actually know this song," she said quietly.

_Out here in the fields, I fight for my meals, I get my back into my living._

"Yeah," Casey replied. "Everybody knows it – it's the Who."

_I don't need to fight to prove I'm right, I don't need to be forgiven._

"Come on, Casey!" Carina said, grabbing his hand. "Let's hit the floor, shall we?"

_Don't cry, don't raise your eye, it's only teenage wasteland._

Sarah laughed as her two fellow agents moved onto the floor and really started making fools of themselves. Then something caught her eye.

_Sally take my hand, travel south cross land – put out the fire, and don't look past my shoulder._

Men dressed in black. Deeply tanned complexions… and guns.

_The exodus is here, the happy ones are near… let's get together, before we get much older._

Sarah stood up and started toward the two agents on the dance floor, but before she got five feet, a hand grabbed her and roughly slammed her back down on her bar stool. "Move again, and my knife wreaks havoc on your delicate little organs," an accented voice whispered in her ear. He twisted the point of his knife in her back for emphasis.

_Teenage wasteland, it's only teenage wasteland…_

Barging through the crowd, the men made a beeline for Casey and Carina. A man walked straight up to Casey, and decked him, brass knuckles and all. He dropped like a sack of potatoes.

_Teenage wasteland, oh, oh, teenage wasteland… they're all wasted!_

Two of the men grabbed Carina and dragged her kicking and screaming out of the club. As they walked out the door, the man holding a knife to Sarah's back removed it, and then ran out the door.

"Baba O'Riley" was building to a fever pitch, and it was making Sarah's head pound. She drew her gun, and ran out the door. A hail of bullets forced her back inside the doorway. When the gunfire stopped, she heard a car door slam.

Stepping back outside, she saw an old Chevy van screeching away down the alleyway. Trying to draw a bead on its tires, she started shooting, but the combination of the van swerving and the alcohol she had consumed was just too much. The van disappeared around a corner, leaving Sarah standing in the rain.

In shock and disbelief, she holstered her gun, and then went back inside the club. The final notes of the Who's classic song played, leaving nothing but silence. Casey was just beginning to struggle up off the floor.

"Wha… what happened?" he asked drunkenly.

"She's gone," Sarah replied, her voice devoid of emotion. "Whoever they are, they've taken Carina."


	9. God Save You Kindly

**February 18****th****, 2004**

Casey and Sarah had both reported in to their respective directors, who had a virtual shit-fit when they heard that Carina had been abducted. "Secretary Ridge just about had an aneurysm when we informed him about Agent Hansen," General Louisa Beckman, director of the NSA, informed them.

"However, it's pretty clear that the situation was out of your hands. Let me be clear, the two of you are not being blamed for this. But you two are responsible for cleaning up. You are to find and retrieve Agent Hansen. Make sure that you don't leave anybody behind, and I mean ANYBODY."

General Beckman was very pointed with that last "anybody", which she said looking directly at Sarah over the video hookup. Sarah nodded her acknowledgment.

"Any leads?" Casey asked.

"We've been picking up a lot of chatter from Taliban forces on the Afghani-Pakistani border that seems to indicate they've captured a very high profile individual. Since the three of you just cut off their source of high-quality Western weapons, we have to assume that they're pretty angry and went after one of you in revenge."

Sarah's stomach turned when she considered what that could mean for Carina. Apparently it showed on her face, because Director Graham said, "We imagine that it's probably not going to be very good for Agent Hansen to be there for an extended period of time."

"Any questions?" General Beckman asked. There were none. "Good luck to you both."

The transmission ended, and Casey turned to look at Sarah. "Let's go to Pakistan."

* * *

**February 25****th**

Sarah and Casey had been in Pakistan for a week. They had started in Karachi, close to the border. Their first lead came when they were identified as Americans by a fruit vendor.

"You are Americans, yes?" he asked.

They shot each other looks. "Is it that obvious?" Casey replied out of the corner of his mouth.

"Oh, only by your speech," the man had replied. "Otherwise, you could be from any other arrogant white colonial nation."

Casey rolled his eyes. "Yes, we're Americans. Why do you ask?"

"I think you come looking for your friend."

Casey's eyes lit up. "What friend?"

"Tall woman, very beautiful. Red hair. Looks to make a man commit many sins."

Casey looked at Sarah. "Carina," he said.

"Carina."

He turned back to the fruit vendor. "Where was she taken?"

"She was with a group of men from the Taliban. They were taking her to a secret location."

"Do you know any more than that?"

"I am afraid I do not."

Casey dug in his pocket. "You've been a great help." He pulled a hundred dollar bill from his wallet and handed it to the man.

The man accepted it, his eyes widening. "Perhaps I should think again about America being the great Satan," he said. 

"Will you let us know if you find anything else out?" Sarah asked.

"Will your friend continue to give me hundred dollar bills?"

Casey grimaced. "I'm sure something can be arranged."

"Well, we know she's in the area," Casey mumbled through a mouthful of peach as they walked away. The vendor had insisted that they take a bagful.

"What's your connection to her, anyway?" he asked Sarah. "It's pretty clear that the two of you know each other."

"Ummm… I guess, she was my…"

_Friend? Teacher? Lover?_

None of those worked particular well for Sarah, especially the third one, since that happened ONCE, and it was part of her training. "My mentor of sorts," she finished.

Casey looked at her. "So, she was your instructor at the Sparrow School," he remarked, totally nonchalantly.

Sarah threw up her hands in disbelief. "How the hell?"

Casey laughed. "She told me."

Sarah shook her head. "You're a son of a bitch, you know that?"

* * *

**February 29****th**

Four days later, they knew exactly who had kidnapped Carina. It was actually terrorists working for a warlord who was sympathetic to Al Qaeda and the Taliban. They even knew where she probably was – being held in the middle of a very large, very secure camp outside of Karachi.

"Well, that's great," Sarah said disgustedly, looking at satellite photos of the place. "We are never going to get in there."

"Oh ye of little faith," Casey smirked.

"You know something I don't?" she asked. "Do you have maybe impenetrable body armor? Laser vision? The starship _Enterprise_ and its transporters so you can beam her up, Scotty?"

She spat the last part out with a certain amount of venom.

"Jesus, Walker, chill," Casey said. "You seem to be forgetting that I am a pilot in the United States Air Force."

Sarah's eyes widened. "No."

"Why not?" he asked. "It's called making use of our resources."

"It's called an invitation to our own funerals!" she shot back.

"Walker, you've got to think outside the box," he said. "I think I've got a way to take down their defense system, and then we fly a light airplane in there, land it, get Carina, and away we go."

"Oh, and you make it sound so simple," she said sarcastically. "Let's go with that first one. How are you going to take down their defense system?"

"Watch and learn, Walker. Watch and learn."

* * *

**Los Angeles, California**

"Thank you for calling the Nerd Herd, my name is Chuck. How may I be of assistance?"

The guy answering the phone hated his job. He hated the fact that he was here. He hated the people who had landed him here. But work was work.

"Yes, sir, we do have a virus specialist. Just a moment, please."

The guy with the curly brown hair leaned back in his chair. "Yo, Lester! Virus call!"

"Got it, Chuck."

Lester hit a button on his phone. "Nerd Herd Virus Specialist, this is Lester. How may I assist you?"

"Is this Lester Amanpoor?" he heard.

"Uh, yes, yes it is. Have we met, sir?"

"No, we have not. All you need to know is that my name is John, I know everything about you, and I am in a position to pay you five thousand dollars to do something for me."

Lester's eyes widened. Getting paid ten bucks an hour kind of sucked, so the idea of five grand was quite appealing. "Please continue, sir."

"In three minutes, you're going to receive an e-mail with an attachment, and an FTP address. There will be a username and a password with that FTP address, but it will only be good for about sixty seconds after you get the e-mail. I need you to log into that FTP, and upload the attachment. Understood?"

Lester understood, and it was simple. He was uploading a virus into some poor unsuspecting soul's server. But hey, it was five thousand bucks. "Understood. But sir, how will I…" Lester lowered his voice. "How will I get my money?"

"I already told you, Lester, I know everything about you. That includes your bank account number. Trust me, you do this right, you'll be five grand richer by the time you leave work today."

Then he hung up. Lester replaced the phone in his cradle, then pulled up Outlook, and started hitting "Send/Receive" every ten seconds. Sure enough, there it was. An e-mail from "anonnowhere.no".

Lester didn't even stop to think how the guy had completely erased his address and domain. He just downloaded the attachment, opened up the command prompt, and logged into the server. As soon as he was in, he uploaded the attachment. Twenty seconds to upload, and he was back out of the server. He dropped the attachment into the Shredder Bin on the desktop, and it was like it had never been there.

* * *

**Karachi, Pakistan**

John Casey was monitoring the server for the terrorist camp on his laptop. Sure enough, two minutes after he hung up the phone, it went berserk – and then went dead. "Damn, he's good," Casey muttered.

He dialed the phone again. "Transfer the funds to Amanpoor's account," he said when it was answered. Then he hung up.

"Their defense system will be down for the next two hours, Agent Walker," he informed her. "Care to go for a little plane ride?"

* * *

Sarah did not know where Casey had gotten an old Cessna 172 aircraft. "Isn't that what Matthias Rust landed in Red Square in?"

"Oh yeah," he said, a grin on his face. "I guarantee you that this is the baby we want for this job."

Sarah wasn't so sure about that, though, as the aircraft seemed to want to vibrate itself out of the sky for the entire flight. Casey assured her that it was just because he had the throttle red-lined.

"Oh, well, that's reassuring," she said dryly.

Just before midnight, they crossed the border of the camp. Casey's virus had, in fact, taken the entire place offline. They could see flashlights trying to find them, and heard the occasional gunshot, but that was all.

Casey bumped the aircraft onto the ground near where they had been told Carina was being held, and dove out of the aircraft, night vision goggles on his head, guns in hand. Sarah followed close behind him.

They ran toward the building, firing indiscriminately into the night, not really caring who they hit or killed. The entrance to the building was locked with a simple padlock, which Casey simply blew off.

They ran into the building. "Okay, now we just gotta find her," Casey said.

"Simple enough," Sarah replied.

She cupped her hands around her mouth. "GOD SAVE ALL HERE!"

Sarah listened. Nothing. She tried again, louder. "GOD SAVE ALL HERE!"

A moment later, she heard a very weak response. "God… save you kindly…"

"This way!" Sarah shouted, running toward the voice.

Three dead terrorists and a hundred feet of hallway later, they were outside the only locked door within the building. Once again, Casey shot the lock off, and Sarah swung the door open.

Casey shone his flashlight inside – and revealed one of the more horrifying sights they'd seen.

Carina huddled in the corner, naked and shivering. It was clear that she'd been beaten horrifically on the back and shoulders, and when they pulled her to her feet, it became clear that she had also been repeatedly raped.

Sarah felt a certain amount of rage growing inside her, and as she looked at Casey, she could see the same growing in his face. Very slowly and deliberately, he pulled off his overcoat, and wrapped it around Carina – and then handed her one of his guns.

"Let's go."

And then the lights came on.

"I thought we had another twenty minutes, Casey!" Sarah shouted.

"Shit, shit, shit, shit!" Casey snapped.

"THERE THEY ARE!"

Their heads whipped to the left, in time to see four men running toward them – and then all drop like flies.

Their ears stinging from the gunshots at close range, they turned to see Carina, the gun in her hands, a cold expression on her face. "Really, let's get out of here," she said emotionlessly.

They ran back out of the building. Sarah got into the Cessna, they helped Carina in, and then Casey climbed in behind her. "This is gonna suck," he said frankly, firing up the engine.

Wheeling the plane around, he turned it back toward the direction they'd come in from. "I would recommend that everybody be ready to put their head between their legs and kiss their ass good-bye."

He red-lined the throttle, and then released the brakes. The Cessna shot forward like a sprinter out of the blocks, running over one terrorist as it did so. Al Qaeda members ran toward them, AK-47s blazing, as Casey begged the plane to leave the ground.

Finally, it did, and Casey yanked the yoke back, straining for altitude. As he did, though, he saw a flash below.

"SHIT!"

He cranked the yoke over to the right, barely avoiding the Stinger missile as it flew past them, but putting the plane into a stall. "Oh, hell."

He pushed the yoke back forward, trading altitude for speed. The little Cessna's speed began to build – but there were power lines straight ahead.

"Oh, God," he whispered. Saying a brief prayer, he pulled back on the yoke gradually, right up to the point where the plane began to rumble on the edge of a stall –

And then, they were clear of the power lines, and he dropped back their rate of ascent.

He released the breath he'd been holding in, and turned around. "Ladies, I'd like to thank you for flying Air Casey. Today's flight will be to Mumbai, India, where we'll land, debrief our respective agency directors, and then get absolutely shit-faced."

* * *

They landed in Mumbai just after three in the morning, much to the surprise of the tower controller. Casey had managed to wrangle a car, which he used to drive the three of them directly to the American consulate.

When they had arrived there, the medic on duty had insisted on fully examining Carina. So, at 5:30 in the morning, they were finally briefing the directors.

"Excellent work, people," Homeland Security Secretary Tom Ridge told them. "Job very well done. Captain Casey, effectively immediately, you are promoted to Major by order of Secretary Rumsfeld; Agent Walker and Agent Hansen, you are promoted to Special Agent, also effective immediately."

"You'll all be receiving an Intelligence Star for this one, people," General Beckman said. "And Agent Walker, I believe that's your second in six months, isn't it?"

"Yes, ma'am," Walker replied. "And the best part is, there's no addendum on this one."

General Beckman frowned at that remark, but didn't say anything. "Good work all around," Director Graham added. "Agent Hansen, you're headed home for some recuperation time. Major Casey, your next destination is Grozny, Chechnya; Agent Walker, you are headed to Madrid. Report to the embassy when you arrive."

* * *

Sarah was amazed to discover a direct flight from Mumbai to Madrid. She was excited to go to Madrid, too – she'd never been to Spain before.

Upon landing, she rented a car, which she drove directly to the American Embassy, as ordered. When she arrived at the embassy, rather than being given further orders, she was given directions 

to a town called Alcalá de Henares. Though she found that odd, she drove the thirty-five kilometers to the town, and went to the hotel she'd been sent to.

Upon walking into the lobby, she was in for a pleasant and completely unexpected surprise – because sitting there were Piers de Klerk and Markus Sobukwe. "Piers! Markus!" she shouted, her happiness at seeing them overwhelming any sense of professionalism.

Sobukwe grabbed her and gave a her a huge hug, and then she turned to de Klerk, who laid a deep, long, and passionate kiss on her. "Wow," Sobukwe said. "I wouldn't have complained about one of those."

"Not from me, I hope," de Klerk cracked, turning to him.

"No, not from you, white boy," Sobukwe shot back.

"What the hell are the two of you doing here?" Sarah asked, still shocked to see them.

"International intelligence conference here the next few days, and I called your Director Graham and suggested to him that you might like to come."

Sarah smiled and shook her head. "Good," she replied. "After the last two months, I need a little bit of a break."

"So, what have you been up to?" Sobukwe asked her.

"Oh, you wouldn't believe it," she teased them. "Of course, if I told you… I'd have to kill you."

They both groaned. "Lame," Piers muttered.

Sarah had more fun the next few days than she had in a long time. Spending that time with Piers after being out of contact for so long was absolutely wonderful, and Sobukwe was very gracious about being a third wheel. He drove them around Alcalá de Henares, and played a wonderful tour guide – surprisingly knowing an amazing amount about the area.

On the morning of March 11th, the two men had to head down to Madrid for the day. "Meeting with a couple of our counterparts," Piers had explained to Sarah the night before. "You're welcome to come, but… it's analyst stuff. I imagine you'd be bored."

She smiled. "I'll just wait patiently up here," she said, kissing him on the cheek.

As Piers and Markus' train was pulling in, Piers pulled Sarah close to him. "I just want you to know that I…"

Piers looked at a loss for words. "What, Piers?"

"I think… I think I've fallen in love with you, Sarah Walker."

She couldn't help it. A huge smile lit up her features. Something she had never been told before.

"I know," she replied.

Piers frowned. "That's not the generally acceptable answer, unless your name is Han Solo."

Her eyes widened. "I meant, I love you, Piers!"

There. She had said it. And it felt good.

He smiled, and kissed her. "I love you too, Sarah Walker. I'll see you tonight."

Markus rolled his eyes, but laughed. The two of them boarded the train. Sarah waved good-bye, and headed back to the hotel.

Forty minutes later, she was sitting in her hotel room, watching the morning news. She enjoyed watching it here – it was always so much straightforward than it was in the United States.

Then, a graphic that said, "Breaking News" in Spanish appeared on the screen. Sarah narrowed her eyes and turned up the volume.

The anchor began to speak in Spanish. "We have just received reports that indicate that there have been four almost simultaneous bomb explosions on the commuter train route between Madrid and Alcalá de Hernales," she said. "We have no further information at this time regarding possible injuries or deaths, but we will be sure to keep you updated as we receive further information."

Sarah's eyes widened, and her heart felt like it had stopped. An icy hand of dread gripped her gut.

Grabbing her car keys, she ran downstairs and retrieved her car. She broke almost every law and speed limit that she could blasting down the road to Madrid, tears streaming from her eyes.

"He's fine, he's fine, he's fine," she kept telling herself, all the way to Madrid. She drove directly to the South African Embassy, and parked illegally in front of it.

Sarah ran inside, and identified herself to the information officer. He took her to the station chief for the NIA.

"We have no news on Agent de Klerk or Agent Sobukwe," he told her. "We can keep you updated by phone, or you're welcome to remain here if you prefer."

Sarah remained at the South African Embassy. All day she was there, leaving her seat in the station chief's office only to use the restroom. Later in the afternoon, the station chief's assistant brought her tea, which she numbly accepted.

Just after 8:00 PM, the door opened, and Markus Sobukwe stepped in. His right arm was in a sling, and he had scrapes and bruises on his face, but otherwise, he appeared to be no worse for the wear.

Sarah jumped up, but when she looked into his eyes, her heart sank.

"Sarah," he whispered, a tear trickling down his cheek. "I… I am so, so sorry…"

A wordless cry of pain and sorrow escaped Sarah's mouth as Sobukwe grabbed her and guided her back to her seat. Her body was racked by sobs.

Markus pulled her close to him, his own tears flowing freely down his face.

* * *

**_Author's Note_**_: As I'm sure all of you, my readers, are aware, the Madrid commuter train bombings of March 11th, 2004, were a tragically very real event._

_One hundred ninety-one individuals died in these bombings. It was the worst terrorist attack anywhere since the 9/11 attacks on New York City, and the worst terrorist attack in Europe since the 1988 bombing of Pan Am flight 103 over Lockerbie, Scotland._


	10. Queen for a Day

**St. Michael and all Angels Anglican Church**

**Alexandra, Johannesburg, South Africa**

**March 15****th****, 2004**

"'I am the resurrection, and the life,' says the Lord. 'Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die.'

"I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.

"Since we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so, through Jesus, God will bring with him those who have died. So we will be with the Lord for ever. Therefore encourage one another with these words.

"We brought nothing into the world, and we take nothing out. The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.

"The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases, his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is his faithfulness.

"Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.

"God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life.

"We meet in the name of Jesus Christ, who died and was raised to the glory of God the Father. Grace and mercy be with you.

"Please be seated."

There was a slight rustling as the congregation sat. Sarah hardly noticed, her senses numb, her eyes fixed on the picture of Piers de Klerk not ten feet in front of her.

"We have come here today to remember before God our brother Piers; to give thanks for his life; to commend him to God our merciful redeemer and judge; to commit his body to be buried, and to comfort one another in grief."

The funeral service was in Afrikaans. Sarah didn't even notice. One of the languages she was fluent in, her mind heard and registered it just as it would if it was English.

"God of all consolation, your Son Jesus Christ was moved to tears at the grave of Lazarus his friend. Look with compassion on your children in their loss, and upon the families and friends of the other 190 victims of the terrible events in Madrid; give to troubled hearts the light of hope and strengthen in us the gift of faith, in Jesus Christ our Lord."

"Amen," Sarah whispered, the word slipping out automatically.

A hymn was sung. The priest spoke of the nature of life and death, of the service that Piers had rendered unto his country. Sarah sat numbly through it all, but her emotional front began to slip when the priest reached the end of his homily and began to quote the 23rd Psalm.

"The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul.

"He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name's sake.

"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff, they comfort me.

"Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: Thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.

"Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever."

Sarah had to concentrate on keeping her front up through the rest of the service, but it began to slip again during the Lord's Prayer. Even though she hadn't been in a church since Christmas Eve of 2002, she found herself unconsciously whispering it, albeit in English.

She managed to keep her composure right up until the end of the service, when a group of four teenagers came to a corner of the front of the church, where the instruments for a four piece rock band rested. "Hi," one of them, a girl who looked to be about sixteen, said softly into a microphone. "We're members of the St. Michael's high school group. Piers was a good friend of ours, and he was our youth group leader."

Sarah was shocked. She had no idea. Piers had never mentioned this to her, but as she thought about it, she realized that he probably would've been really good at it.

"We're really gonna miss him," she continued, a tear slipping down her cheek. "He taught us this song by the American band Audio Adrenaline a couple of weeks ago, and we… we want to use it to say good-bye to Piers."

_Oh no,_ thought Sarah. She didn't know what song it was going to be – she didn't even know who Audio Adrenaline was – but she knew that no matter what the song was, it was probably going to send her over the edge.

A boy who looked about fifteen started playing a strumming pattern on the acoustic guitar. A light drumbeat accentuated the rhythm, and the girl started singing in English.

_You'll be fine tomorrow, the sun will rise… still, it's never easy to say good-bye_.

Sarah's breath caught in her throat, and she fought desperately to hold the tears back.

_You know I'll always love you, you know I always will._

She felt the sob building in her chest, the tears stinging her eyes.

_Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, my old friend. Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, we've reached the end._

It was as if a faucet had been opened. The sob burst out, tears cascading down Sarah's face. She buried her face in her hands, her composure shattered, grief taking over.

_I don't cry for sorrow, I cry with joy. The memories we've made can't be destroyed._

Sarah felt a hand on her shoulder. She lifted her face from her hands, and looked to her right. The hand belonged to a woman Sarah had never met, but who she recognized from earlier in the service as Piers' mother.

_You know I won't forget you, you know I never could, and when I said I loved you, you know I meant for good._

Sarah sat up as Piers' mother wrapped an arm around her shoulders, taking Sarah's hand in hers. The two women who had never even met shared their grief as the teen group sang.

_Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, my old friend. Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, we've reached the end._

As the group went into an instrumental break, six men in the front row stood, and went to the coffin. Sarah recognized the director of the National Intelligence Agency among them, but taking the point position, one arm still in a sling, was Piers' partner and friend, Markus Sobukwe.

The girl who had been singing spoke in Afrikaans. "Good-bye, Piers," she whispered, tears flowing freely down her face. "We love you."

And as the pallbearers lifted the coffin, turning to the left, a soaring electric guitar solo filled the old Anglican church. The combination of stimuli, visual, aural, and emotional, brought a fresh batch of sobs bursting forth from Sarah.

_Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, my old friend. Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, we've reached the end._

The pallbearers walked down the aisle, in a slow and dignified fashion. Sarah glanced at the coffin through blurry eyes at it went past.

_You know I won't forget you, you know I never could, and when I said I loved you, you know I meant for good_…

* * *

The sanctuary had emptied. Just Sarah and Piers' mother were left sitting in the front row.

Neither of them spoke for a while. Finally, Piers' mother turned to Sarah.

"I'm Francine de Klerk," she said quietly. "You must be Sarah Walker."

Sarah nodded, not trusting her voice.

"Piers told his father and me all about you," the older woman said, a sad smile on her face. "We were so looking forward to meeting you at some point, too. Piers just wasn't sure when it would be, because he said you're always busy with State Department work."

_State Department, huh?_ Sarah thought. The professional part of her brain said,_That would've been useful to know_.

"I wish I could've met you under different circumstances," Sarah finally said. "That morning… when I said good-bye to Piers… I told him I loved him. It's the first time I've ever said that to a man… and… and meant it."

The little bit of composure she'd been able to build up shattered again, and the tears began anew. Francine de Klerk, a look of shock on her face, just softly said, "Oh, Sarah," and pulled her close. The two women just sat there, Francine holding the broken CIA agent as Sarah's grief spilled out until she held no more.

* * *

**Langley, Virginia**

**April 12****th****, 2004**

The elevator doors opened, and Sarah arrived on the administrative floor of CIA headquarters for the first time in over three months. When she had arrived back in the United States three and a half weeks prior, Director Graham had met her at the airport and personally driven her home. He had insisted that she take some time off, both for her own benefit and for the Agency's benefit.

Sarah had gratefully done so, but figured that now, after two months of operating overseas, another week of vacation in Spain, and four weeks of bereavement leave, it was time to get back to work.

As she crossed the floor, people quietly spoke to her, most of them saying things along the lines of, "Welcome back."

Sarah entered the anteroom to Director Graham's office. His assistant looked up. "Welcome back, Agent Walker."

"Thank you," Sarah said quietly, before looking away. The last time she had spoken to the woman was right before her Johannesburg mission four months prior, and she couldn't make that connection go away.

Sarah knocked on Director Graham's door. "Come in," she heard from within.

She opened the door, entered the office, and closed it behind her. She turned and looked at Director Graham, who just indicated with his hand that she should sit down.

Sarah took a seat in front of his desk. "It's good to have you back, Sarah," he said quietly.

"Thank you, sir," she replied. "It's good to be back."

"I'm not going to bother with consolation and platitudes, because I'm sure you've had quite enough of that," Graham said. Sarah just nodded. "Then let's move right on to your next assignment."

He handed her a folder. "It's a simple one, nothing too demanding, but complex enough to hopefully take your mind off of things."

"I'd appreciate that, sir."

Sarah opened the folder, and then looked up at Graham, her eyebrows raised. "I'm going back to Baghdad?"

Graham nodded. "Mr. Bremer needs an intelligence advisor, and I believe you'd be a perfect fit."

"Mr. Bremer," she said. "As in L. Paul Bremer?"

"One and the same," Graham replied. "You'll be advising the man in charge."

"Oh joy," Sarah breathed.

* * *

And so Sarah headed to Iraq. Back to the Presidential Palace in Baghdad, where she'd been just thirteen months before – _Was it REALLY that recently?_ she couldn't help but think – to advise L. Paul Bremer, Administrator of the Coalition Provisional Authority.

She discovered quickly that working in Baghdad, in a word, sucked. She couldn't go anywhere without an armed escort. She couldn't fall asleep many nights, kept awake by the sound of distant gunfire and explosions. The insomnia that she thought she had overcome years before began to return.

One morning, Administrator Bremer sent her to a detention center. He didn't give her any details, until she arrived there, and was escorted by US Army troops to a highly secured part of the center.

She was shocked to see the man in the cell. The last time she had seen Saddam Hussein, he had been dressed in a three piece suit, his appearance immaculate, groomed, refined. Now, he was dressed in prison garb, his hair wild, his beard unkempt.

Nonetheless, intelligence still shone in his eyes, and he recognized her immediately. "Agent McConnell," he said, his voice still snake-oil smooth. "It's been far too long."

"Mr. Hussein," she replied.

"No longer Mr. President, eh?" he asked. "You young ones and your lack of respect."

"With respect, Mr. Hussein, you've been deposed. You were captured, arrested, and now you'll be put on trial. With luck, you'll be convicted for brutally murdering thousands of people, and hopefully, you'll hang."

He shook his head. "So bloodthirsty. It's unbecoming such a beautiful woman as yourself."

Sarah rolled her eyes. She was being hit on by the Butcher of Baghdad.

"Mr. Hussein, I came here to ask you a very simple question. I want an answer for it. Where are the WMDs?"

Hussein started laughing. "Oh, Agent McConnell, I will burn in the fires of hell before I tell you that. They are well hidden, where your government will never find them. Your President will look like a fool, and the United States will be spat upon by the world community."

"Are you so sure that we'll never find them?" Sarah asked, venom in her voice.

Hussein stood and walked to the gate of his cell. His face became serious. "I am positive," he said softly. "You Americans will not see those weapons again until the day that they rain down destruction on your cities."

Hussein's maniacal laughter followed Sarah all the way to the door of the detention center.

* * *

When Sarah woke on the morning of June 27th, something just felt wrong. Very, very wrong.

She just had no idea what.

She went through her normal rituals, and headed out for the Presidential Palace. Upon arrival, she headed for the administration offices.

When Sarah arrived, things were a bit chaotic, but a sense of calm seemed to settle as soon as she entered the room. That changed as soon as she uttered the words, "Where's Administrator Bremer?"

Eight jaws dropped. "What do you mean where's Administrator Bremer?" one of the policy advisors asked. "We thought he was with you!"

Sarah shook her head, a sense of unease creeping over her. "No," she replied. "I haven't seen him at all."

Then she realized. "Wait a second. I don't know where he is. You all don't know where he is. Who's in charge?"

Eight sets of eyes looked expectantly back at her.

Sarah's eyes widened and she shook her head. "No. No. Oh, HELL no. I am SO not in charge of Iraq!"

She couldn't believe what was going on. "Have we contacted Central Command?"

"The network's busy," one of them said. "We haven't been able to get through."

Sarah's head was beginning to spin. Crossing to a telephone, she picked it up, and dialed for an operator. "This is Special Agent Sarah Walker, Central Intelligence Agency," she informed the operator. "I am advisor to Administrator Bremer, and we cannot locate him. I need to speak to General Abizaid immediately."

Sarah was told to hold. There were clicks, and a few rings.

"Abizaid," she heard.

"General Abizaid, this is Sarah Walker. I'm Administrator Bremer's intelligence advisor, and we can't locate him. I need to know right now who's in charge."

There was silence on the other end. "Miss Walker, are you telling me that the top civilian official in Iraq is missing?"

"Yes, sir, as far as we can figure."

Sarah heard what sounded distinctly like a "Jesus fucking Christ" come from the other end of the line, and then Abizaid spoke clearly again.

"Miss Walker, I am currently in Fort MacDill, Florida. Unless I receive orders from the President, I cannot appoint a military administrator in Iraq, even in an emergency situation."

"Wait, what?" Sarah objected. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying, Miss Walker, that since you seem to be the highest ranking civilian that anybody can find, you're in charge unless you can get the President on the horn."

"Seriously, General, are you bullshitting me?"

"No, ma'am. I would recommend you contact General Hertzlig with the First Armored, and then get in contact with Washington immediately."

Sarah sighed. _How the FUCK did this happen?_ "Thank you, General."

She gently replaced the phone in its cradle, and fought back the urge to scream. Taking a deep breath, she began to issue orders.

"Alright, people, listen up. Until we figure out what exactly is going on, I am apparently in charge here. So, I need somebody to track down General Hertzlig with the First Armored Division, and get him over here post haste. Somebody needs to get in touch with the White House. I need to speak with President Bush, to have him order General Abizaid to appoint a military administrator if need be. I need somebody else to get in touch with Prime Minister-Elect Allawi, and get him over here, and I need somebody to find out exactly what the HELL Administrator Bremer thinks he's doing, and where he is."

She sank into a chair. "And somebody please get me some Advil."

* * *

Six hours later, Sarah was still "in charge". General Hertzlig and Prime Minister-Elect Allawi were really running the show, but Sarah was "in charge" because Allawi didn't take office until the next day, and they had been thoroughly unable to reach President Bush and have him order General Abizaid to appoint a military administrator.

At just after 5:00 PM, Administrator Bremer walked in the door, cool as could be, dressed in golf clothing. Sarah's eyes went wide when she saw him, blood rushing to her head. She saw red, and practically exploded out of her chair.

"WHERE THE FUCK HAVE YOU BEEN!" she roared, marching across the room. The room went silent, the other dozen or so people there staring at this incredible sight – a twenty-two year old female CIA agent ripping the sixty-three year old civilian administrator of Iraq a new one.

"Playing golf…"

"WITHOUT telling anybody where you'd be," Sarah shouted. "We've been operating all day not knowing what the HELL was going on. For all we knew, you were dead. In fact, for the last eight hours, there HAS BEEN NO LEGAL AUTHORITY in Iraq, because of YOUR incompetence!"

"Agent Walker…"

Sarah closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she re-opened them, she said, in a very tight, very controlled voice, "Administrator Bremer, I am hereby resigning my post as the chief intelligence advisor for the Coalition Provisional Authority. I will be departing Iraq tomorrow morning."

She turned her back, leaving a stunned L. Paul Bremer in her wake. To her left, Mark Hertzlig and Iyad Allawi were trying very hard to not laugh.

"I need a flight out," Sarah informed one of the staff assistants on her way out.

"Where to?"

"Wash- no, wait."

She paused. "Johannesburg."

* * *

Late on the afternoon of June 28th, while the eyes of the world were on Baghdad, watching the transfer of power from the Coalition Provisional Authority to the interim Iraqi government, a solitary figure stood in Westpark Cemetery in Johannesburg. A simple headstone stood before her.

"Piers de Klerk," the headstone announced. "October 30, 1979 – March 11, 2004. Brother, Son, Friend, Patriot."

A bitterly cold wind whipped around Sarah Walker, causing her to shiver in the midst of the South African winter. She pulled her jacket tightly around her. With only the clothes she had taken to Iraq, she wasn't really prepared for winter conditions.

"Hi, Piers," she said quietly. "So, you wouldn't believe what I've been doing these last couple months. I've been in Iraq, acting as the intelligence advisor for L. Paul Bremer, the civilian administrator for the country."

She paused. "I think the 'L' stands for loser," Sarah laughed. "Because, seriously. Yesterday morning, I went in, and he wasn't there. Nobody knew where he was. Before I knew it, I was in charge of Iraq. Eight hours I was supposedly in charge of everything happening in the country. Finally, at 5:00 in the afternoon, he showed up."

Sarah smiled. "I ripped him a new one, and then quit. You would've been proud."

Her eyes began to tear up. "I miss you, Piers… I miss you so much… I miss opening up my e-mail and smiling because there's a message from you… I miss getting postcards from you… and I miss having you just pop out of nowhere."

She heard footsteps behind her. She turned and saw two figures in overcoats approaching – Director Graham and, surprisingly, Father Mike O'Halloran. Sarah turned back to Piers' grave.

"I have to go," she said. "But I still… I still love you."

Stepping to the headstone, she laid the flowers that she had been holding against it, and then stood up and walked toward the two CIA men.

"Agent Walker," Director Graham said as she approached. "We've had a hell of a time locating you."

"I know how that feels," she replied back, her deadpan broken by the lump still in her throat.

"Aye, and I told ye she was th' resourceful one," O'Halloran said with a smile.

"Indeed," Graham said. "Well, Walker, we've got work to do. A new assignment for you. Shall we get back to Washington?"

She nodded her affirmation. "Let's go home."

* * *

_**Author's Note:**__ Okay, two things. First of all, I realized after writing this chapter that the song sung at the funeral – "Goodbye", by Audio Adrenaline – was not actually written, let alone performed or recorded, until the end of 2005. However, at that point, I really didn't want to go back and change the funeral scene, because it just seemed to work so well._

_Secondly – yes, the idea of Sarah Walker being in charge of the Iraq Coalition Provisional Authority, even for such a brief period of time, is absolutely preposterous. However, it seemed like a fun idea, so I decided to run with it. Just remember – this is, indeed, fiction._


	11. Training Day

**October 2004**

The plans that sat on Art Graham's desk could be best described in one word:

Audacious.

It was truly one hell of a plan. One gigantic computer database that would contain all the intelligence of the CIA, the NSA, the Defense Intelligence Agency, the Drug Enforcement Administration, the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms, and the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Intelligent software with pattern identification capabilities would run it, software that had been contracted to the guys responsible for Linux.

He was sure, though, that they could come up with a more attractive name for this monster than the "Common Intelligence Database."

"El CID," he snorted derisively, as somebody knocked on his door.

"Come in!"

The door opened, and a tall, attractive blonde woman stepped into his office. In his earlier days with the CIA, he would've suspected some of his co-workers of sending a stripper to see him.

But in this case, it was one of his agents. Special Agent Sarah Walker, deep-cover operative for the CIA Special Operations Directorate.

"Agent Walker," Director Graham said, rising. "Welcome back. How was Gdańsk?"

She made a face. "It was… well, Gdańsk. Not exactly Poland's garden spot."

Graham laughed. "Have a seat."

He picked up the CID file and was getting ready to put it away, but just on a whim, he said, "Agent Walker, if you were going to create a giant computer database that held all the intelligence of six federal agencies, which could be cross-indexed and referenced at will, what would you call it?"

Her eyes widened. "I… I have no idea, sir. I don't know. The Common Intelligence Database, maybe?"

He gave her a look. "You're REAL helpful. That's already what it's called."

"Sorry, sir, that's just how I think."

Director Graham sighed. "I need a ten year-old on my staff. They come up with some good ideas."

"Well," Sarah replied, "if you ever want to become an evil overlord, that's the number twelve thing to do – have a child on your staff to identify any flaws in plans."

Graham's forehead creased, a look of disbelief appearing on his face. "I beg your pardon?"

"It's the evil overlord list, sir," Sarah said, a hint of a smile appearing on her face. "One hundred things to ensure that you do should you ever become an evil overlord."

"Agent Walker, was Gdańsk REALLY that boring?"

"Yes, sir, yes it was."

"Well, I hate to do this to you, but," Director Graham put down the CID file and picked up another one, "your next assignment is keeping you stateside."

Sarah's face fell. "Well, okay."

"We've identified one of our analysts as having incredible potential to become a field agent. We want you to train him."

"Are you planning to have him become a deep-cover, sir?"

"No," Graham replied. "He's too much of a wild card for that. The reason I want you training him is because you are better at the field craft portion of things than just about any other agent we employ. That, and I'm looking to develop sort of a prototype team here – a deep-cover operative trains a standard field agent, and they become partners. They go into a mission situation, the operative penetrating, and the agent remaining on the outside as their contact and control. Because they've worked together, and the operative has trained the agent, there's supposed to be more of a trust, a connection between the two."

Sarah's eyebrows raised, an appreciative look appearing on her face. "That's… that's a brilliant plan, sir."

"Well, it was developed by the analyst who we are assigning to you for the launch of the program," Graham replied. He hit a button on his phone. "Karen, you can send him in."

A moment later, the door opened, and a young man walked in. Sarah turned to see who it was – and immediately jumped to her feet in surprise.

"Bryce Larkin!"

The look of shock on his face equaled her own. "Beth… Beth Reynolds!"

It was a little weird for Sarah to hear that name. She hadn't heard it in almost two years.

"Uh, yeah," she replied. "It's actually Sarah Walker now."

"Of course," Bryce said. "Agent Walker. My apologies."

Director Graham looked at Sarah, and then at Bryce, and back at Sarah. "The two of you know each other!"

"Bryce is the nephew of Frank and Lynn Hoover, who were my… excuse me, they were Beth Reynolds' next-door neighbors when she was growing up."

A look of disbelief painted itself on Graham's face. "Three hundred million people in this country, and the two agents I pair for this program trial happen to know each other."

"Well, Director, it is a small world after all," Bryce cracked.

"Shut up, Larkin," Graham replied. "Agent Walker's earned the right to speak to me that way. You have not."

Bryce's eyes widened, and his face turned red. "Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."

Sarah had to turn away so that Bryce wouldn't see the smug smile that appeared on her lips. Director Graham saw it, though, and shook his head.

"I'm just going to leave the two of you to it."

"Wait," Sarah protested. "Don't I get any guidelines here?"

"No," Graham replied, shrugging his shoulders. "This is the test program. I thought I'd made that clear. You're making this up as you go along. Oh, and be sure to take notes."

"Oh. Joy," Sarah deadpanned.

"Dismissed," Graham shot back.

As they were walking out the door, he stopped them. "Larkin, you're supposed to be some kind of genius. If you were creating a database that had all the intelligence of six different agencies, all cross-indexed and what have you, and you had to come up with a catchy name for it, what would you call it?"

Bryce grew a thoughtful look on his face. "Um, I'd probably call it… well, how about the Intersect?"

Graham nodded. "The Intersect… I like it. Now, off with you."

Out in the corridor, Bryce had to struggle to keep up with Sarah. He was used to just walking normally; she, on the other hand, walked with a precise thirty-inch stride as pounded into her over two years before – _God, has it REALLY been that long!_ she thought – by Marine Corps Gunnery Sergeant Martin Adams.

"What are we going to do today, Agent Walker?" Bryce asked, sounding like a little boy wanting to know what they were going to do.

"The same thing we do every day, Mr. Larkin," Sarah replied, doing her best not to smile. "Try and take over the world."

That stopped him dead in his tracks. She got a little ways down the hallway before she realized he wasn't with her anymore. Sarah stopped and turned around. "Are you coming?"

"You – you just quoted _Pinky and the Brain_!" Bryce replied, astonished. "I didn't think deep-covers were allowed to have a sense of humor!"

Sarah looked back at him, confused. "Where did you hear that?" she asked, a note of humor creeping into her voice. "We're allowed to be human beings, have emotions, even crack the occasional joke… we just have to be very careful about it, that's all."

"Learn something new every day," Bryce muttered, jogging to catch up with her. "So, where are we headed first?"

"Weapons cage," Sarah replied.

"Weapons what!"

She turned and looked at Bryce. "You're trained in gun use, correct?"

"No…"

This time, she stopped in her tracks. "You're kidding me. You work for the CIA, and you haven't had weapons training?"

"I'm an ANALYST," Bryce said. "What am I going to shoot, the fax machine?"

Sarah sighed. "Unbelievable."

She started walking again, Bryce finally matching her stride. "As of today, you carry a gun," Sarah told him. "If you're going to be a field agent, I expect you to always have it on you. That's the only weapon you'll have for now, but eventually, you'll have a wide variety of weapons that can be easily concealed on your person. If you follow your training, you will be able to kill a man over a hundred different ways by the time I'm through with you."

Bryce's brow furrowed. "I always thought that was a myth."

"Not in the least," Sarah replied, leading him into the weapons cage. She stepped to her locker and opened it. Reaching in, she pulled out a compact gun and a shoulder holster, and handed them to Bryce.

"Beretta nine millimeter," she said. "Standard police issue, practically impossible to screw up. Keep it loaded at all times. Don't ever draw it unless you're actually willing to shoot somebody."

"Yes, ma'am," Bryce replied, taking the gun gingerly. Taking off his jacket, he put on the holster, adjusting it to his chest.

Sarah pulled her gun out from where it always rested, by the small of her back, popped the clip, reached into her locker, and inserted another one. Replacing the gun, she turned to Bryce, and said, "Let's go get some coffee."

As they walked out of the weapons cage, Sarah pulled out her cell phone, and fired off a simple text message. "Prep SB range," it said.

When they reached the ground floor of the facility, Sarah led Bryce into – what else? – the Starbucks by the lobby. She shook her head at the seeming pervasiveness of the company.

"What'll you have, Bryce?" she asked.

"Venti upside down caramel macchiato, extra syrup shot, double the espresso, non fat, no foam, on ice," he shot back.

Sarah's face took on a look of stunned disbelief. "Go order your own damn drink," she finally said. "And get me a vanilla latte."

He smiled. "Yes, ma'am."

Sarah took a seat at a table by the front, and looking up, made eye contact with one of the baristas. She simply raised her eyebrows, and he nodded. She nodded back, giving him a quick thumbs up.

A moment later, Bryce joined her at the table. He handed Sarah her drink, and took a sip of his.

"Good Lord," she commented, looking at his. "How can you drink that?"

"It's good," he replied. "That, and I'll run an extra mile later."

Sarah practically choked as she took a sip of her latte. "An extra mile!"

"Oh, yeah. I run at least five miles every day."

She nodded. "Okay, that's a good thing."

"I ran track at Stanford," Bryce replied. "I was a gymnast as well."

"See, these things would've been useful to know earlier," Sarah said. "Whether you realize it or not, you HAVE in fact had weapons training. Your body is a weapon. And from what you're telling me, it sounds like you've trained it in a fashion that allows you to use it for speed, flexibility, and power."

Bryce looked pensive. "I never thought of it that way," he said finally. "I always thought I was just having fun."

"One man's fun is another man's training," Sarah replied. "Civilians – and even analysts – think that CIA agents go through all this crazy, James Bond business, but in reality, much of our training is derived from real life exercises. We don't necessarily receive any more physical training than, say, a Recon Marine or a Navy SEAL."

"That's still a hell of a lot more training than the average person," Bryce said.

"That is true," Sarah admitted. "However, that sort of training is not the most important aspect of being a field agent."

"And what would that be?"

Without warning, Sarah stood up quickly, knocking her chair over backward. She pulled her gun out of her waistband, raised it, and started firing. Within ten seconds, every single person in the Starbucks was on the ground, and her clip was empty.

"WHAT DID YOU DO!" Bryce screamed, leaping up, yanking his gun from the holster under his arm, and aiming it at her. "WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU JUST DO!"

Sarah didn't answer him. Instead, she said, "Thank you all," and everybody who she had apparently just shot stood up and resumed what they had been doing beforehand.

She turned to Bryce, took the Beretta from his hand, and said, "You have to turn the safety off in order to shoot it." She handed it back to him, and with a trembling hand, he put it back in its holster.

"The most important thing about being a field agent," she continued, as though nothing had happened, "is that you have to be prepared to do anything, at any time. If that requires shooting everybody in a coffee shop, then so be it. Clearly, that's not preferable, but it happens."

Sarah reached down to the table and grabbed her coffee, putting her gun back as she did so. "Let's go for a walk."

Bryce's hands were still trembling as they stepped outside into the crisp October afternoon. "I have to give you credit for your reaction," Sarah said. "However, the first thing that you should've done upon having your gun aimed was shoot me."

Bryce looked at her like she was crazy. "Have you lost your mind!"

"Nope," Sarah replied. "Give me your gun for a moment."

Bryce handed her the Beretta. Before he even realized what was going on, she had turned it on him, turned off the safety, and pulled the trigger. The gunshot echoed through the air.

Bryce, his eyes wide with shock, looked down at his chest. Nothing. "What the hell!"

"Your gun was loaded with blanks, just like mine was," Sarah replied, handing it back to him. "Everybody in the Starbucks was a volunteer. It's a practice range, just like any other part of the facility except for the analysis and administration floors."

"You have lost your mind," Bryce replied slowly. "Are all deep-cover operatives crazy like you?"

"I'm not crazy, Bryce," Sarah said. "What I'm trying to do here is employ the most effective method of instruction – learning through experience. Everything that has happened to you in the last ten minutes, you will remember the next time you're in a similar situation, and you'll use your knowledge to adapt."

Bryce shook his head. "I don't know," he said. "When I came up with this plan, and Director Graham approved it, this is not at all what I expected."

Sarah blew out her breath in frustration, and put her hands on her hips. "That's the point, Bryce! That's what I'm trying to get you to understand here – if you're a field agent, you have to ALWAYS expect the unexpected! You use your body as a weapon. If you have to shoot people, you do so. If you see somebody shooting a bunch of other people, you shoot first, ask questions later. You never, ever hand somebody else your gun. And that's just the tip of the iceberg."

"I don't know, Sarah," Bryce hesitated. "I'm not sure I'm cut out for this after all. It seems like right off the bat there's a lot of killing involved with this job."

"Not as much as it might appear, Bryce," Sarah replied. "I did that to show you some of the worst parts of the job at the very beginning."

She sighed. "Believe me when I say, though, as a field agent, you're not going to have to do half of what I do as a deep-cover operative. But let me assure you – everybody I've ever killed has been a very bad person."

Bryce still seemed unsure. "I'm still not sure I'm cut out for it."

Sarah put her hand on Bryce's shoulder. "Bryce. Can you do something for me?"

He didn't say anything, just looked into her eyes.

"Trust me," she said. "Trust me, and stick with this. I think you can do this. I just need you to trust me, and to trust yourself. Can you do that?"

He didn't say anything for a moment. Finally, he sighed. "I think so."

"Alright," Sarah said. "Then let's get to work."


	12. Prison Break

**February 2005**

Bryce Larkin was scared to death.

He was driving a Chrysler 300 down the road at nearly 100 miles per hour. A Suburban full of crazy people was dancing around his car, the people inside of it firing guns at him every chance they got. It was only be sheer providence that he hadn't personally been hit yet – of that, he was quite certain.

Bryce pressed the gas pedal of the 300 to the floor, tried to make its big Hemi engine respond, but the Suburban had more power and was able to cut him off easily.

He turned to his passenger. "I can't do it, Sarah. I just can't get away from them!"

Sarah Walker sighed, raised a radio to her lips, and said, "Alright, breakaway."

The Suburban peeled off to the right, and the 300 rolled to a stop.

They sat under the mid-day sun at the Toyota Proving Grounds outside of Phoenix. Sarah hadn't been sure what to expect of Phoenix in early February, but she certainly hadn't expected it to only be 49 degrees at noon.

"Okay, Bryce, what happened there?"

"I got ambushed by a Suburban full of crazy people, and I couldn't get away," he replied. "Their car is more powerful, and they clearly have a more experienced driver."

She shook her head. "Doesn't matter. You've got a more maneuverable vehicle, but you didn't use it."

"What do you mean I didn't use it?"

She didn't explain, just said, "Switch places. I'll show you."

Bryce hopped out of the car and ran around to the shotgun side, as Sarah slid her body over the center console. Bryce got back in the passenger door, and Sarah fired the 300 back up.

"This is Walker," she said into the radio. "Send the triple package."

She pressed the 300's accelerator to the floor, and it leapt down the road. After about thirty seconds, three more vehicles came onto the road – the Suburban and two Toyota pickup trucks.

Bryce's eyes grew wide as he realized that they were being chased by three vehicles. "Are you insane!"

Sarah didn't answer, just pressed the accelerator to the floor. Bryce watched the speed climb – 85, 90, 95, 100…

The Suburban pulled up even with them, then began to pass and pull out in front. As the two pickups began to pull even, Sarah, still pressing the accelerator, yanked up on the emergency brake, cranking the wheel to the right.

The front end of the Chrysler struck the truck on their right a glancing blow, sending it skidding away. The other truck swerved off to the left as the driver of the Suburban stood on his brakes, trying to come to a stop.

A great cloud of grey smoke surrounded the Chrysler as Sarah whipped it around through a one-hundred-eighty degree turn, releasing the handbrake as she came to face the opposite direction. Still standing on the gas, the 300 practically flew forward, leaving the other three vehicles in dust.

"That's one evasion technique," Sarah said calmly, looking over at Bryce. Bryce had a white knuckle grip on the "oh shit" bar and was practically hyperventilating.

"Bryce, calm down. You're perfectly protected in here."

He just nodded.

"Alright," Sarah continued. "Time for evasion technique number two."

The three "bad guy" vehicles had regrouped and were coming up fast. She waited until the Suburban was about five hundred feet behind her, and then stood on her brakes. As soon as the Chrysler came to a stop, she threw it into reverse, and floored it.

Bryce watched in wide-eyed horror as the Suburban loomed larger and larger in his mirror, noticing the ominous warning of "Objects in mirror closer than they appear."

Finally, just when it seemed the Suburban was about to hit, Sarah jerked the wheel to the right, causing the 300's rear end to swing around that direction. The rear bumper clipped the front bumper of the right hand Toyota, causing it to spin out – again.

Sarah kept control of the 300, and it rocketed, in reverse, onto the access road that led onto the track at that point. As Bryce watched the Suburban fishtail all over the track and finally run off into a ditch, he realized in amazement that Sarah had planned that maneuver down to the second. She knew EXACTLY what she was doing.

"Breakaway, breakaway!" came over the radio, and Sarah brought the 300 to a rapid halt. Putting it in park, she jumped out, and grabbed her gun.

"What the hell are you doing, Sarah?" Bryce asked anxiously, nonetheless getting out of the car and drawing his own gun. "They called a breakaway!"

"That was just the evasion exercise," she replied. "We have to neutralize."

"Sarah…"

But she didn't stop. She went running down the tarmac, toward the disabled Suburban, Bryce on her tail. When she reached it, she opened the door, and pointed her gun.

"Bang," she said. "You're dead."

Director Graham looked back at her – not pissed, but with a huge smile on his face. "Damn, that was fun," he said. "I haven't done that in forever!"

Sarah smiled. "I told you that you wouldn't regret coming, sir."

"You may be right, Agent Walker," he replied, "but I think we're gonna get a tail chewing in about a minute here. The Sheriff's not gonna be pleased at what we did to his vehicles."

She looked down the track, and saw what was clearly a police car coming, lights flashing. A moment later, it screeched to a stop next to the Suburban, and an overweight old man in a khaki uniform stepped out.

"What the FUCK was that all about!" Maricopa County Sheriff Joe Arpaio demanded. "Agent Walker, that 300 may belong to your outfit, but the Suburban and those two Tacomas do NOT! Those are the property of Maricopa County, and you just caused several thousand dollars damage to them!"

"My apologies, Sheriff Arpaio," Sarah replied. "However, I knew going into this that there would likely be damage to the vehicles – this was, after all, a tactical driving exercise. You should have anticipated the same."

"So you're telling me that you expected the damage to happen?" Arpaio replied. Bryce swore that he saw something glowing behind the man's aviator sunglasses.

"Yes, sir, I did."

Arpaio looked at his deputies and nodded. "Sarah Walker and Bryce Larkin, I am placing you under arrest for intentionally damaging the property of Maricopa County with intent to destroy. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you."

His deputies stepped behind the two agents, cuffing their hands behind their backs, and relieving them of their weapons.

"One more thing," Arpaio added. "If either of you uses your phone call to call the Phoenix New Times, I'll cut your fucking throats."

Bryce couldn't believe what was happening. He looked over at Sarah, but couldn't read a thing off of her. Her face was inscrutable, her eyes hidden behind her sunglasses.

"Sheriff Arpaio, I must strongly object to this course of action!" Director Graham protested.

"Shove it, Director, we're on my turf, not yours!" Arpaio shot back.

As Graham watched, Bryce and Sarah were loaded into the back of the MCSO Crown Vic. Arpaio got in the shotgun seat, and it sped off down the track.

"What the hell, sir?" one of the agents in the Suburban asked Graham.

"Now we wait."

* * *

Bryce and Sarah were processed into the Fourth Avenue Jail in Phoenix in record time. Bryce used her phone call to try and reach his family's overpriced lawyer back in Connecticut – but he got his voicemail. Sarah, on the other hand, called a number that Bryce couldn't see, and simply said, "China Syndrome," before hanging up.

"What the hell do we do?" Bryce asked Sarah, in a panic.

"Well, I would suggest you start working on a way to get us out of here," Sarah responded.

Bryce's eyes went wide. "I KNEW you were out of your mind!"

"Bryce, you want to be a CIA field agent, you need to start acting like one."

He shook his head. "Thanks, Sarah."

She was led away to the women's portion of the jail, and he was led off to the men's portion.

* * *

Two hours later, Bryce sat on a bench in a large common cell with eleven other men, his head in his hands. He couldn't fathom that in three hours, he'd gone from being part of a CIA evasive driving course to being an inmate under a sheriff who made him want to stand up and say, "Heil Arpaio!"

Worse yet was Sarah's comment right before they were separated. _You want to be a CIA field agent, you need to start acting like one._ It stung. Badly.

The worst part of all was the fact that she had even made that comment. He had thought they were starting to develop a rapport, that they were becoming partners, friends, even, maybe even a little closer than that. But then she had to go and say that.

"Yo, homes!" he heard.

He looked up. "Yeah, you, white boy! What you in here for?"

Bryce rolled his eyes. Great. He was in with some wannabe gang bangers.

"Hey, bitch! I'm talkin' to you!"

"Excuse me?" Bryce said. "Bitch?"

"Yeah, bitch, BITCH. You got a problem with it?"

_Be the bigger man, Bryce_.

_Nah, screw being the bigger man._ "Yeah, I got a problem with it," Bryce said, standing.

"Well, why don't you do something about it… BITCH."

The man challenging Bryce was covered in tattoos and was a good six inches shorter than Bryce. Three teardrops on his face indicated that he was not a man to be messed with.

Bryce had no intentions of messing with the man, just disabling him. He waited until the challenger had swaggered right up to him, and then, without warning, swung his fists from either direction, slamming them against the man's temples, and dropping him like a rock. "The Vulcan Head Smack," he had dubbed it.

Then Bryce had an idea. An idea on how to get out.

"Anybody else?" he asked with a smile.

Ten men rushed toward him. They never stood a chance.

Bryce used the martial arts techniques he had learned from Sarah, plus the brute fighting techniques he had learned from Gunny Adams, to rapidly disable all ten men.

Just as he knocked out the last one, the cell opened, and in rushed three Maricopa County Corrections Officers.

"Hello, gentlemen," Bryce said with a smile.

The lead officer lifted his Taser. Bryce simply dropped to the floor, catching himself in a pushup pose. Using his arm strength to swing his body around, he swept the officer off his feet.

The officer's fall was totally unplanned but totally serendipitous. He fell backwards, his Taser managing to shoot both of his partners as he went. He tried to get up, but a kick to the chin knocked his head against the floor, rendering him unconscious as well.

Bryce took the three officers' Tasers – no guns, which was unfortunate, but oh well – and one nightstick, and quickly moved out of the cell. He encountered little resistance at first, which told him that the three men who had come to his cell had been the entire guard for the block.

He rounded the corner into the corridor pointing to the women's block, to see a guard with a shotgun. Out of Taser range, but…

Bryce pulled back his arm and hurled the nightstick, sending it end over end. It pegged the guard in the forehead, knocking him over backwards. He dropped the shotgun.

Bryce sprinted to the end of the hallway, stopping only to collect the nightstick and the shotgun. He rounded a corner, and there was a general population cell, Sarah sitting against the wall.

She stood up when he approached, but the look in her eyes was less "Oh thank God," and more "It's about time."

"STAND BACK!" he shouted, aiming the shotgun at the lock on the cell door. He fired –

And white objects shot out the end of the shotgun, disintegrating against the bars of the cell and the floor. He bent down to look closely.

"Rock salt!" he exclaimed, incredulous. "What the fuck do they keep in here, Satan and his minions!"

"Bryce!" Sarah said. While he was busy studying the salt, she had come to the wall of the cell and was holding a lock pick out to him.

"What the hell?" he asked. "Where'd you get this?"

"Multi-use hair pins," she replied. "Now kindly get me out of here."

He tried to pick the lock, but was unsuccessful. "I can't get this to work."

"Bryce…"

_You want to be a CIA field agent, you need to start acting like one_. The thought ran unbidden through his head.

Concentrating, he got the lock to open. Sarah slipped out, and then slammed the door shut behind her, much to the dismay of the other occupants.

"Here," Bryce said, handing her a Taser.

Two guards came thundering around the corner. "FREEZE!"

Sarah and Bryce looked at each other, then back at the guards. They fired their Tasers simultaneously, sending the corrections officers to the ground, twitching.

By the time they reached the parking garage, there was a trail of disabled Maricopa County Corrections Officers behind them. Bryce ran up to a sheriff's Crown Vic, and without thinking twice, swung his nightstick through the driver's window.

Reaching in, he unlocked and opened the door, then unlocked the passenger side. Sarah climbed in.

"Okay," Bryce muttered, using Sarah's lock pick to pull out the ignition cylinder. "How do I do this…"

He yanked a bunch of the wires free. "Shit," he said. "I don't have a clue."

Bryce looked up at Sarah, but she was being no help whatsoever. She just looked at him and shrugged.

"Oh, come on!" he protested, but with no other choice, he just started touching wires together. Finally, he touched two together, there was a spark, and the engine roared to life.

"ALRIGHT!" he whooped, and put the Crown Vic in reverse. He backed out of the parking spot, and then dropped it into drive, flooring the accelerator –

And coming face to face with a group of MCSO deputies as he rounded a corner. "Here we go," he breathed, not letting up on the accelerator.

It took the deputies but just a second to realize what he was doing, and they dove out of the way like Spaniards before the bulls in Pamplona.

Bryce rocketed down the parking ramp, but the sight he encountered when he was within reach of daylight was a sickening one.

The gate out of the parking garage was coming down.

"Come on, come on, come on," he begged the Crown Vic.

"Bryce, you're not gonna make it!" Sarah shouted.

"The hell I'm not!" he snapped back.

But she was right. The gate was coming down too quickly, and as Bryce looked over at Sarah, he saw real, honest to God fear on her face.

It was too late to stop, and he didn't have enough space left. "DUCK!" he shouted.

The Crown Vic hit the bottom of the gate at almost fifty miles an hour, shattering the windshield and peeling the roof back like a can opener. However, Bryce realized that that was sunlight above him, and sat up.

He was in a convertible cop car now – the roof sat behind him, in the parking garage of the Fourth Avenue Jail – but as the car shot out onto Fourth Avenue, he realized that they were free. "YES!" he hollered, jerking the wheel hard right to turn into traffic.

Sarah sat up, wide-eyed, and brushed safety glass out of her hair. "Holy shit," she breathed. "I can't believe you just did that."

"You told me to start acting like a CIA field agent," Bryce said. "There you go!"

He cranked the wheel to the right to turn onto Jackson Street – and slammed on the brakes, coming to a stop inches from the Suburban parked in the middle of the street, a sheriff's Crown Vic on either side of it.

Director Graham stepped out of the Suburban, Sheriff Arpaio right behind him.

"Jesus Christ," Arpaio said when he saw the Crown Vic. "What do I have to do to make you people go away and never come back?"

Graham ignored him. "Well done, Larkin," he said with a smile. "You just escaped one of the tightest jails in the country, under the nose of one of the most highly-trained corrections departments in the country."

"Wait…" Bryce breathed. Everything fell into place. "This was all a TEST!"

He turned to Sarah. "SERIOUSLY!"

She shrugged and nodded. "You passed with flying colors, Bryce."

He looked around. "You are all insane."

"Well, then you're in good company… Agent Larkin," Director Graham replied.

* * *

"You owe me," Bryce muttered to Sarah on the flight back to Washington.

"For what, exactly?" she asked, incredulous. "You just got designated as a field agent, and I owe YOU? More like the other way around, I think!"

"Fine," Bryce said. "Then let me make it up to you."

She rolled her eyes. "How, exactly?"

"Monday. Let me take you out for Valentine's Day."

Sarah froze, thinking of Valentine's Day the year before. She'd been in Prague, taking down an old KGB network with John Casey and Carina Hansen…

And she'd gotten an e-mail from Piers de Klerk with all kinds of silly jokes about Valentine's Day, and a brief video clip saying how much he wished he could spend it with her.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "I… I really don't think that's a good idea, Bryce."

He narrowed his eyes. "Why not? It'd just be as friends."

She shook her head. "Valentine's Day is never just as friends, Bryce. That may be your intention, but it would never stay that. I think you knew that when you asked, too."

Bryce sighed. "Okay, guilty. But what's wrong with that? I think you're an incredible person –can you really fault me for that?"

Sarah just looked at him. "Bryce, you're my partner. Letting something like that go anywhere would be an incredibly bad idea."

"That argument is crap, Sarah," he replied, hurt. "I know where personal relationships end and professionalism begins. Don't you?"

She looked like he had cut her to her very soul, and he instantly regretted it. "Of course I do!" she shot back angrily. "But the last person I got involved with in this line of work – the person I was with last Valentine's Day! – ended up dead!"

Bryce's breath caught in his throat. "Oh, God," he whispered. "I had no idea. I'm so sorry."

She leaned back in her seat and folded her arms. To Bryce, it looked like she was fighting back tears.

He leaned forward, reaching across the table between them. "I really am sorry, Sarah. I never would've meant to hurt you like that."

"Bryce… Bryce, I know – I'd just – I'd like to be alone right now."

He nodded, unbuckled his seatbelt, and stood up. He couldn't go too far in a Learjet, but he went to the end of the cabin, and sat down across from Director Graham.

Graham looked across the aisle at Bryce. "Piers de Klerk," he said quietly. "Analyst with South Africa's National Intelligence Agency. Sarah worked with him on a mission, they ended up together, and then he was killed in the Madrid train bombings last March."

"Jesus," Bryce breathed. "I am such an ass."

He fell silent. As the Learjet flew on into the night, the only sounds onboard were the muffled sobs of a woman whose soul was very, very far from healed.


	13. The Thunder Rolls

**June 14****th****, 2005**

Sarah Walker paced by the window of the darkened house on a back street in Cabo San Lucas, Mexico. A vicious thunderstorm raged overhead, the lightning creating odd shadows in the house, and the rolling thunder making Sarah jump

What had she been thinking, sending Bryce out on his own? This was his first legitimate mission, for God's sake, and she had sent him to retrieve a set of nuclear launch codes that had been stolen by a Venezuelan spy cell.

She knew what she had been thinking, but that didn't make her like it any more. And she certainly didn't like the thought of what he was probably getting up to right now.

"Happy birthday to me," she whispered bitterly, looking out the window, hoping against all hope that the rental car would round the corner.

* * *

_Eight days earlier_

"Well, this prototype is about to be put to the test for the first time," Director Graham informed them.

"You mean we're finally going out on a mission?" Bryce asked excitedly.

"That's correct," Graham replied. "Now, before you get too excited about this, I have a news flash for you. This is one of the most sensitive missions this agency has embarked upon in years, and if the two of you screw it up, this concept goes away, and you both become file clerks. Clear?"

Bryce and Sarah's eyes widened. "What the hell are we doing?" Sarah asked.

Graham sighed. The door was shut. He activated a white noise generator on his desk. Even though his office was swept for bugs twice a day, it never hurt to be careful.

"A set of nuclear launch codes was stolen from the Trident submarine base at Bangor, Maine," he said quietly. "We believe they were stolen by a terrorist group that is associated with Hugo Chavez – the president of Venezuela."

Sarah looked confused. "So why not just change them? It's not that hard."

"Agent Walker, unfortunately, it's not that easy, either. Ohio-class submarines carrying Trident missiles patrol for a couple of months at a time. They can go for a couple of weeks with no contact with the mainland whatsoever. If somebody were to contact them with a launch code that matched up with their book before the Navy could contact them, they would assume that they had a valid launch order and launch against whatever targets they were issued."

Sarah's eyes widened and her mouth formed a perfect "O". "My God," Bryce whispered.

"Exactly," Graham said. "Now, we believe that we've tracked this cell to a safe house in Cabo San Lucas, Mexico. You two are going to go there, posing as a married couple on vacation –"

"Cabo at this time of year?" Bryce asked. "You sure this is a mission?"

"Positive, Agent Larkin," Graham replied, an edge to his voice. "You and Agent Walker are going to go there, and find the cell leader, code name 'Aire Fresco'."

"Fresh air?" Sarah said. "That's one of the lamest code names I've ever heard."

"Nonetheless, that's the leader's code name. You are to find this person, and Agent Walker use whatever means necessary to discover the location of the codes and retrieve them."

Sarah grimaced. _Whatever means necessary._ She knew exactly what that meant.

Bryce didn't. "Whatever means necessary? Are we talking torture here?"

Sarah shook her head. "No, Bryce. We're talking seduction."

"Oh," Bryce said, suddenly feeling very uncomfortable. He didn't like that idea one bit.

"Is there a problem, Agent Larkin?" Graham asked, seeing the look on Bryce's face.

"No sir," Bryce answered. "That just seems like it might be… unnecessary for Agent Walker to go through."

"Agent Larkin, I'm sure Agent Walker is more than capable of making that call for herself."

"Yes, sir."

"One more thing," Director Graham said. "You both remember that Common Intelligence Database project I mentioned a few months ago?"

"Yes, sir," the two said simultaneously.

"Well, it's been approved, and at my suggestion, they decided to go with your name for it, Agent Larkin – they're going to call it the Intersect."

Bryce raised his eyebrows. "Well, that's cool, I guess."

"Just thought you should know. Dismissed."

As Sarah and Bryce walked down the corridor, Sarah asked, "What was that all about back there, the whole thing with saying it might be unnecessary to 'go through' with whatever?"

"I don't know," Bryce replied._ Ever heard of jealousy, Agent Walker!_ "I guess I just don't like the idea of an agent using her body for something like that."

Sarah stopped. "Bryce. What was the very first thing I taught you?"

He sighed. "You have to be prepared to do anything, at any time."

"Exactly. We're talking about a missing list of nuclear launch codes, Bryce. Now, as an agent, I have to be prepared to do anything, at any time. So do you. If that means that I have to sleep with the leader of a terrorist cell to recover this list of codes, then I'm by God gonna do it."

"Okay, Sarah, okay," Bryce replied, starting to get irritated. "I get the reasoning. That doesn't mean I have to like it."

Sarah shook her head. "I don't understand, Bryce. Ever since you got promoted to field agent four months ago, you've been gung ho, let's go take down the terrorist bastards, and yet, as soon as we get a mission, you're suddenly hung up on the idea that I might have to go have sex with –"

She stopped, and her jaw dropped. "You're jealous!"

"No," Bryce replied, his stomach dropping out from under him. "No, that's not it."

"Yes, yes, it is!" Sarah replied, a hint of a smile beginning to form on her face. "You like me, and you can't stand the idea of me having to do my job!"

"We're not having this discussion," he scowled, and began to walk away.

"Oh, yes, we are, Bryce," she replied, catching up with him. "I'm your superior officer, and I'm telling you right now that we are going to get this out in the open before we go to Mexico."

He whirled on her. "What the hell is with that, Sarah? You insist that I have feelings for you, and then when I don't want to talk about it, you pull rank on me? Is that how you treat all your boyfriends?"

The word slipped out before he even realized he had said it, but when he realized, it was like the entire Langley complex had come crashing down on his head.

"Oh, shit," he whispered, and then turned tail and literally ran away from the scene as fast as he could.

Sarah was left standing by herself in the corridor. She couldn't help it. She started laughing.

"Oh, dear, this is going to be a problem," she whispered to herself, wiping tears of laughter out of her eyes.

* * *

Sarah was waiting for Bryce at Langley the next morning. When he showed up, he looked like hell. It was pretty clear that he'd gone home and gotten completely blitzed the night before.

His hair was a mess, his face was pale, and he was wearing large, dark sunglasses. When he looked up and saw Sarah waiting for him outside the door, his entire body seemed to slump.

She shook her head. "He's gonna have to face it eventually," she whispered to herself. Standing, she approached him, and handed him the cup in her hand.

"Coffee," she informed him. "Black. None of that crap you usuall-"

Her voice trailed off as he put the cup to his lips and proceeded to drain it. He winced and clutched his stomach for a moment, but then stood up a little straighter.

"That's better," he muttered. "I actually feel human again."

Sarah shook her head again. "Okay, for your benefit, we'll put off talking about what happened yesterday until later."

"Or never."

She reached up and removed his sunglasses, causing him to squint. She grabbed his face and looked him in the eyes.

"Bryce, listen. We're partners. If we're going to work as a team, we have to be able to talk about stuff like what happened yesterday afternoon. Now, like I said, I'm happy to wait until later to talk about it, but we are, at some point before we reach Cabo, going to talk about it."

He took his sunglasses back and slid them on his face. "Fine. Is the car here yet?"

Right on cue, a black Crown Vic pulled up behind him. "Let's go," she said.

Bryce unconsciously opened the door for her, and then climbed in behind her, shaking his head when he realized what he'd done. He shut the door behind him and leaned back against the seat.

Unfortunately for him, the trip was short – just over to Langley Air Force Base. An unmarked Gulfstream waited there to fly them across the continent. They were to fly to San Diego, and then take a rental car down to Cabo.

"That's a hell of a drive," Bryce said, looking at the mission manifest.

"We have to," Sarah replied. "We can't take any chances on being identified as anything BUT tourists."

"I got it, I got it," he muttered.

When they reached the plane, he wanted nothing more than to sink into a seat and fall asleep, but Sarah insisted on going over mission particulars.

"You're Mr. Don Tanner, and I'm Mrs. Jill Tanner."

Bryce winced. "Does it really have to be that name?"

"Is there something wrong with the name?"

"It's just – oh, never mind. Jill Tanner. That works."

"Okay," Sarah said, confused. "Moving on. We're from New York City. You're an investment banker with Bear Stearns, and I'm a professional massage therapist."

"Really," Bryce replied.

"Yeah…"

"Okay, Sarah, I know the lingo that a Bear Stearns banker would know, because my parents both work on Wall Street. However, can you do anything that a licensed, certified massage therapist can?"

Sarah narrowed her eyes, pulled out her wallet, and tossed him a card. It informed him that Sarah Walker was a massage therapist, licensed and certified by the state of Virginia.

_God, I fail sometimes_, he thought. "Sorry."

"I had a little free time between missions," she explained.

"So, continue," he said.

"Anyway. You need to wear this at all times," she continued, handing him a small jewelry box. He opened it, revealing what looked distinctly like a gold wedding band. "It's part of our cover, and it contains a GPS tracker."

He nodded. "That works."

"And finally, what was with your comment in the hall yesterday?"

Bryce sighed. "Do we really have to talk about this right now?"

Sarah sat back and crossed her arms, a ghost of a smirk appearing on her lips. "Do you have anything better to do right now? 'Cause, you see, you can't run away this time."

Bryce sighed again. He bent his neck and buried his face in his hands. "Sarah… I spoke without thinking. I allowed what I wanted to somehow get confused with reality."

Then he realized. He'd done it again.

"Goddammit. I have got to get a control on my mouth."

Sarah looked at him with a little smile. "Is that what you want, Bryce?"

He shook his head. "I don't know, Sarah. I mean, I know that… that I have feelings for you that are stronger than one ordinarily has for a friend, or even a professional partner."

She nodded, looking downward. "The thing is, though, Sarah, I know you might not be ready for anything. The director told me about Piers."

She looked back up at him. "And if you're not ready, if you haven't been able to move on yet, I totally understand. But I want you to know, I like you. For whatever it's worth."

Sarah smiled sadly. "I don't know. I'm not sure if I'm ready to move on. I'm not sure if I want to move on."

She paused. "But thank you, Bryce. Thank you for being honest with me. It really means a lot."

* * *

They arrived in Cabo around 8:00 PM. They checked into their condo. The bedroom had one king bed, just for cover purposes. Bryce promised to stay on the opposite side of the bed.

The next four days were completely uneventful. They went to the beach, went to various clubs and bars that Aire Fresco was known to frequent, and tried to act like a couple. They took a couple of pictures with Sarah's camera phone that she had to admit were kind of cute.

On their fifth full day there, they were in a club called Callé 66. Sarah and Bryce were sitting at the bar, when there was a stir at the door. They turned to see a beautiful woman enter, a man on each arm.

"Good Lord," Bryce whispered. "Who is that?"

The bartender overheard him. "That, my friend, is the most powerful woman in Baja California. That is Aire Fresca."

Bryce's eyes widened, and he turned to look at Sarah. "No way."

She clapped a hand to her forehead. "Shit."

Sarah pulled out her cell phone and dialed a number. "This is Walker, secure," she said quietly. "We have a problem. The code name was screwed up. It wasn't Aire Fresco, it was Aire _Fresca_. The cell leader is a woman."

* * *

They sat in the hotel room, trying to figure out what to do. "Shit," Sarah muttered. "One letter. One fucking letter. How hard is it to get that right!"

"Sarah, let it go," Bryce said. "These things happen."

"Yes, but this mission is going to fail, because I'm not going to be able to get close to her like I need to."

"Why not?" Bryce asked. "Anything, at any time, remember?"

Sarah shook her head. "Langley ran a profile on her. She's a devout Roman Catholic, finds the idea of homosexuality repulsive. It'd never work."

"For you," Bryce replied.

"Yeah, which means the mission is a bust," Sarah said.

Bryce shook his head. "No… I can do it."

Sarah's eyes went wide. "Wait a minute. No. You can't."

"Why not?" Bryce asked. "You think I can't pick up a woman in a bar?"

Sarah glared at him. "I'm sure you can. But I've been trained. I have professional training. I spent a month at a CIA institution nicknamed the Sparrow School. I was taught how to seduce people like this. You don't have that training, because you're not a deep cover."

Bryce rolled his eyes. "Oh, well, your precious Sparrow School makes you so much better."

"Bryce, I'm not going to let you do this," Sarah retorted. "It's not appropriate for me as your superior officer to let you do that, and I don't want you to do it."

And now the shoe was on the other foot, as the words were out of her mouth before she realized it.

It was enough to give Bryce pause, but just for a moment. "We don't always get what we want, Sarah. Believe me."

She had frozen, unsure of what to say next.

"We have to retrieve those launch codes, Sarah," Bryce said. "I HAVE to do this."

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

"Tomorrow evening," Bryce said. "I'll do it tomorrow evening."

* * *

Langley hadn't been big on the idea at first, but Director Graham had agreed with Bryce that getting the codes was the number one priority here. Sarah had reluctantly agreed to stay out of it, knowing that her presence would likely just screw things up.

Before Bryce left that night, though, he called information, and then went out. When he came back, he had a Wal-Mart bag in his hand.

"Wal-Mart in Cabo?" Sarah asked.

"Yeah," Bryce replied. He reached in, and pulled out a blue envelope. "Listen, as I understand it, tomorrow's supposed to be your birthday. I… I'm sure it's not even your real birthday, but I couldn't just let it go without saying anything."

He handed her the envelope. "Happy birthday."

And with that, he walked out the door, into the wind of an oncoming storm.

Sarah opened the card. There was a picture of a cake on the front, practically engulfed in flame.

_I have no idea what your real age is_, the front said, _but one thing's for sure – they don't make 'em like you anymore!_

She smiled at how silly a sentiment that was, and opened the card.

_Dear Sarah,_ it said. _I can tell that you dislike the idea of me going off to seduce this terrorist just as much as I disliked the idea of you doing it. I know that I'm not trained for this like you are, but I'm sure I'll do just fine._

_I'm sure that I'll come out of this mission without a mark on me, but just in case I don't, I wanted to let you know how much I've come to care for you these last eight months. You've left such a mark on my life, and there is no way I could ever forget that. I hope, that in some small way, I've made a difference in yours as well._

_Happy birthday._

_Your partner and your friend,_

_Bryce Larkin_

Sarah closed the card, and realized that her face was wet. "Dammit," she whispered. "I can't let this happen, not again."

* * *

Eight hours later, and still no word from or sign of Bryce. Sarah's stomach was tied in a Gordian knot.

She tried not to think about it. She failed.

She tried to have a glass of wine to sooth her nerves. It just made her worse.

With a heavy sigh, she turned away from the window as a bolt of lightning pierced the sky and a crash of thunder followed close behind.

"Happy birthday to me," she whispered.

Trying to find something to distract her, she crossed the bedroom to the radio and turned it on. As bizarre as it seemed, it sounded like some Mexican station was playing American country. Sarah turned up the radio.

It was Garth Brooks' _The Thunder Rolls_.

"How bizarrely appropriate," she said, laughing bitterly.

_Three thirty in the morning, not a soul in sight, the city's lookin' like a ghost town on a moonless summer night._

* * *

Bryce lay in bed with the woman known as Fresh Air. He had been successful in the execution of his mission. All he had to do was get his hands on the codes, and he'd be out of there.

He closed his eyes. Why did he feel so guilty?

_Raindrops on the windshield, there's a storm movin' in. He's headin' back from somewhere that he never should've been._

* * *

Sarah had called Langley. She was worried. Bryce should've been back by now.

"Trust your agent, Walker," a very grumpy Director Graham instructed her. He had just arrived at the office – it was just after 5:00 AM in Washington. "I'm sure he's fine."

_And the thunder rolls, and the thunder rolls._

* * *

Bryce couldn't just lie there anymore. He rolled out of bed, careful not to disturb the woman. He crossed to her desk, and began to rifle through the papers on top.

Then, he saw it, sticking out from under a stack of other papers. The seal of the Department of the Navy.

In triumph, he tugged on the corner of the paper, making a noiseless _Yes!_ with his mouth as he did so.

Then he heard the hammer of the gun cock behind him. "Looking for something, Mr. Tanner?"

_Every light is burning in a house across town – she's pacin' by the telephone in her favorite flannel gown._

* * *

Sarah had tried to go to sleep. It hadn't worked. She just lay in bed, tossing and turning.

She remembered something that Carina had told her at the Sparrow School – "It's practically impossible to have a real relationship in this line of work, Walker. Something comes up, you have to move on. You have to leave it behind. Worse still, somebody like me comes along and tries to take what you want."

She rolled over, burying her face in the bed and covering her head with her pillow, trying to block out the noise of the storm.

_Askin' for a miracle, hopin' she's not right – prayin' it's the weather that's kept him out all night._

* * *

Bryce turned to see Aire Fresca standing, gloriously naked, a gun pointed at him. "And here I was hoping that you were just some young attractive stud who wanted to fuck me," she said, a note of disappointment in her voice. "I should have known better."

"You can't have these," Bryce said, holding the paper up in his right hand. "You could cause chaos, even war with these." His left hand was busy behind his back, looking for something – anything! – that he could use as a weapon.

She smiled. "Ah, war. I like that idea. And you will be the first casualty."

_And the thunder rolls, the thunder rolls!_

* * *

The longer Sarah went without sleep, the more vivid her imagination got. She was starting to imagine in explicit detail just what Bryce might have done with that woman.

She tried to force the images out of her head, but she couldn't help it. Then, an even more disturbing thought occurred to her.

What if Bryce hadn't returned because he was dead?

_And the thunder rolls, and the lightning strikes! Another love goes cold on a sleepless night, as the storm blows on, out of control – deep in her heart, the thunder rolls._

* * *

"Don't do this," Bryce said. _Ah ha!_ His left hand had found a letter opener. He gripped it in the palm of his hand.

"It will be a pity," she said, crossing closer to him. "You were so… vigorous."

Reaching him, she reached down and grabbed him as she drew the barrel of her gun along his cheekbone. "I suppose I should at least make it a… climactic death for you."

She started moving her hand, enough to distract Bryce. He squeezed his eyes shut, and clenched his teeth, and then, with a soft hiss, brought his left hand up and swung the letter opener into her throat.

_She's waitin' by the window when he pulls into the drive. She rushes out to hold him, thankful he's alive._

* * *

Sarah was pacing by the window again, when she saw headlights come around the corner. She looked outside –

It was their rental car. She didn't care that it was pouring rain. She ran outside as the car pulled into the driveway.

Bryce stepped out, one hand covered in blood – the other hand holding the list of codes. He held them up, and smiled.

She ran to him, but instead of taking the codes, like he was expecting, wrapped her arms around him, holding him tight.

_But on the wind and rain, a strange new perfume grows. The lightning flashes in her eyes, and he knows that she knows._

* * *

Sarah could smell the scent of another woman on him. The perfume, the sweat. But she didn't care. She knew that Bryce had done only what he had to do.

She moved back, and looked up at him. She could feel the water dripping from her hair, see it dripping from his face, but that was all irrelevant.

Sarah gently placed her hand on his cheek, and then stood on her tiptoes and kissed him.

And the thunder rolled.


	14. Grand Theft Bomber

**4:00 PM, August 27****th****, 2005**

The aircraft on the screen was huge. It looked like a bird in flight – sleek, graceful, and incredibly deadly.

"The Tupolev model 160," the disembodied voice of Director Graham said, cutting through the darkened room. "NATO reporting name _Blackjack_. Designed in response to the canceled XB-70 Valkyrie project; built and deployed in response to the B-1 Lancer.

"When the Soviet Union collapsed in 1991, nineteen of these remained in the possession of the Ukraine. Eight were later sold back to Russia, one was stripped of avionics and put on display as a museum piece, and seven were destroyed.

"However, three remain intact, and are still usable, and very, very dangerous. Each of these aircraft can fly at twice the speed of sound and carry more than half again the payload of a B-52 Stratofortress.

"The reason we are here today is because the Ukraine is contemplating the sale of these three bombers to the People's Republic of China. Needless to say, this is an idea that the administration thinks is very, very bad."

The lights came up. Sarah Walker and Bryce Larkin both blinked at the brightness. Sarah very discreetly and very quickly extracted her hand from Bryce's.

Not quickly enough that Director Graham didn't notice. He chose not to say anything, though – the two worked very effectively together, and that being the case, he wasn't going to dictate what they did in their free time.

"The two of you will be sent to the Ukraine. We have arranged for you to meet privately with President Viktor Yuschenko, to negotiate for the bombers."

Bryce spoke up. "When you say negotiate for the bombers, do you mean that we're going to try to outbid the Chinese?"

"Yes and no," Graham replied uneasily. "The President has authorized us to offer the Ukraine up to five hundred million dollars per bomber."

Bryce raised his eyebrows and whistled.

"That's far less than the Chinese are offering," Graham continued, "and the President knows that. However, he has also authorized us to offer our influence in expediting the Ukraine's entrance into NATO in exchange for the bombers."

He shook his head. "There's just something unnatural about a former Soviet republic being part of NATO. Surely the two of you can appreciate that."

Sarah's eyes widened, and she looked over at Bryce, then back at Director Graham. "Sir, no disrespect, but when the Soviet Union collapsed, Agent Larkin was ten years old, and I was nine."

Graham groaned, but he smiled. "Agent Walker, are you calling me old?"

"No, sir, why would I EVER do such a thing?"

"Hah!" Graham replied. "Alright, the two of you get out of here. Go, get packed, get ready for your mission, get the pre-mission sex out of the way, and be back here by seven."

Sarah and Bryce's jaws both dropped upon hearing and registering Graham's seemingly off-hand comment. They both just stared at him.

He looked up, and saw their looks. "What? You think I'm stupid? Christ, the two of you might think you're hiding it, but you couldn't be any more obvious if you were wearing t-shirts that said 'I'm sleeping with my partner'!"

The two of them stumbled over each other trying to talk.

"Sir, we can explain –"

"It's not really like that –"

"It just sort of happened –"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Graham interrupted, holding up his hands. "I don't care! The two of you could be screwing on the reception desk in the lobby for all I care, as long as you keep doing your jobs as efficiently as you have been the last few months! Fraternizing with fellow agents might be against regulations, but I AM the law around here, and as long as it doesn't interfere with your job, I could give a fat whoop-de-doo."

He walked out of the briefing room, leaving two speechless agents behind him. Finally, Sarah looked at Bryce – and smacked him in the back of the head.

"'It's not really like that'? What the hell does that mean?"

"I was just saying that it's not all about the sex," Bryce replied.

Sarah smiled, and then laughed. "Nice recovery, Bryce. Very smooth."

"Hey," he said, "I'm just saying, if it was all about the sex, I would've made that clear – probably been bragging about it. You don't think half they guys here wouldn't give up at least a month's pay to sleep with you?"

And that was enough to earn him another smack to the back of the head, as Sarah retorted, "I'm sure they ALL would, not just half of them."

* * *

Take-off from Langley Air Force Base was VERY rough. "Sorry about that, folks," the pilot said over the PA, after they finally cleared the turbulence – about an hour into the flight. "There's a hurricane blowing away down in the Caribbean, and it's wreaking havoc all along the coast."

"We're good," Bryce called – not that he expected the pilot could hear him. He looked across the aisle at Sarah.

She was staring straight ahead, a white knuckle grip on her armrests. "Sarah?" Bryce said, a look somewhere between amusement and concern appearing on his face. "Sarah, it's alright. We didn't crash."

"I… am… aware… of that," she spat.

"Then calm down."

"I am TRYING!"

"And you're not doing a very good job at it," Bryce replied, unbuckling his seatbelt and standing up. He crossed the aisle to stand behind Sarah's seat. Reaching down, he began to gently massage her neck. He was shocked to find she was wound tighter than a guitar string.

Eventually, though, she began to relax, and started making appreciative noises in response to his manual ministrations. "Hmmm, you're pretty good at that, Bryce," she whispered.

"Thanks."

"I'm better, though."

He stopped. "You've been to school for it!"

"Hey," Sarah objected. "Nobody gave you permission to stop."

* * *

When the Learjet landed at Kiev-Zhuliany Airport, the two agents spilled out of the aircraft practically giggling, leaving two very embarrassed pilots behind them. It seemed that Captain Rick Mahoney, USAF, the Lear's pilot, had decided to use the lavatory right around the same time that a certain pair of CIA agents had decided it might be fun to join the Mile-High Club in the middle of the cabin.

A car from the American Embassy was there to pick them up. It took them from the airport not to the Verkhovna Rada, but to a small, non-descript house about four blocks away.

When Sarah and Bryce exited the car, they noticed a few strange things about the house – bulletproof glass in the windows, a number of antennae on the roof, and a Patriot surface-to-air missile emplacement in the back yard cleverly concealed as a tree house.

A very sour looking man stood at the front door. Wordlessly, he frisked each of the agents before they entered the house, collecting a virtual armory from them both before allowing them to enter. "You have very good taste in guns for woman," he grunted to Sarah in slow English, examining her old but still very usable Colt 1911 handgun.

"Spasiba," she replied, seeing the man's eyes light up upon hearing her speak in Russian.

"Puzhalsta," he replied, and then, switching back to English, said, "But is also not native language."

"I know," Sarah said in Russian, "but sadly, I don't speak the language of Ukrayina."

"It would do you well to learn," a mildly accented voice said in English from the other side of the screen door.

The guard opened the door, admitting both Bryce and Sarah. There, before them, stood a man with what had become one of the most famous faces in the world – the dioxin-scarred visage of Viktor Yuschenko, president of the Ukraine and survivor of a brutal assassination attempt thought to have been perpetrated by his opponent in the last election, Viktor Yanukovych.

"Sarah Walker," she said, introducing herself. "This is my assistant, Bryce Larkin."

_Assistant!_

"I am President Viktor Yuschenko," he replied. "It is a pleasure to meet you both.

"So," Yuschenko said, getting right to the point. "I understand that you would prefer that a few little birds created by the Tupolev design bureau not find their way to new nests in China."

"That is approximately the long and short of it, yes sir," Sarah replied.

"And what exactly does the United States offer me to ensure that these, what do you call them, 'Blackjacks' do not find themselves with a red and gold flag on them?"

"I am authorized to offer you five hundred million dollars, US, per plane," Sarah said.

Yuschenko gave her an amused look. "Five hundred million dollars per plane is a very large amount of money," he said. "But not so large as the eight hundred million Euros per plane that the People's Republic of China has offered us for them. Think about it, Ms. Walker. Consider how much more 2.4 billion Euros will do for this country than 1.5 billion dollars."

Sarah was unmoved. "Mr. President, consider how much more 1.5 billion dollars can do for your country, if along with those dollars comes the influence of the United States of America to expedite the entrance of Ukrayina into the North Atlantic Treaty Organization."

Yuschenko leaned back in his chair, his eyes widening slightly. "Well, that does make a great deal of difference, now doesn't it?"

He clasped his hands together, interlocking his fingers. "If that is the case, and you are willing to give me your word, Ms. Walker, then the planes are yours to take."

"My word, Mr. President? Surely you need more than that. Assurances from our President."

Yuschenko sighed. "Ms. Walker, in the dealings I have had with the CIA – you are CIA, are you not?"

Sarah was astonished. "How could you possibly know that?"

"Ms. Walker, the American government would never send a member of the State Department for such a secretive, back channel negotiation as this. I have never encountered a military negotiator as highly skilled and intelligent as you, which means that you must be CIA."

Sarah shook her head. "Then you should know, sir, that I can neither confirm nor deny that fact."

"I understand, Ms. Walker," he replied. "Nonetheless, let me say that in all my dealings with the CIA, which were many during what we called the 'Orange Revolution', I found them to be not at all like they are portrayed in the movies – rather, they were honorable, committed men and women. As such, I feel that your word in this matter will suffice."

He leaned forward. "In addition to that, representatives of the People's Air Force are currently on their way to take possession of the three aircraft. They are expected to arrive here within four hours. As such, if the United States desires them, you must take them now. But just give the word, and I will call Vasylkiv Air Base and have them prepared for flight."

Sarah's mind started running at a thousand miles a minute. "We'll take the aircraft, Mr. President. However, I have only two pilots at my disposal. Is there any chance of delaying the Chinese in order to give me time to arrange for a third?"

"I'm afraid not," he replied. "The Parliament would politically castrate me if I were to do such a thing."

"Sir, they'll probably do so anyway if you're reneging on a deal with the People's Republic of China."

Yuschenko smiled. "But in return, I receive the support of the United States with regard to our entrance into NATO. It's a risk I'm willing to take."

Sarah nodded, and a flash of inspiration came to her. "Mr. President, if you'll excuse me for just a moment…"

"Absolutely, Ms. Walker."

Sarah stood up and stepped outside the front door. She pulled out her cell phone and dialed a number.

It rang twice, three times, four. "Casey."

"Major Casey, this is Sarah Walker."

"Verify that."

"One year, six months ago today, we rescued an undercover DEA agent from an Al Qaeda camp outside Karachi, Pakistan. What did you say just after the aircraft we were in departed the camp?"

"I thanked you and the DEA agent for flying Air Casey."

"Copy that," Sarah said, happy to get that out of the way. "Where are you, right now?"

"I'm in Cherkasy, in the Ukraine."

Sarah's heart jumped. "Unbelievable," she whispered.

"Agent Walker?"

"How quickly can you get to Kiev?"

Casey was quiet for a moment. "An hour, give or take," he replied. "What's going on?"

"Major Casey," Sarah responded excitedly, "how would you feel about stealing a Tu-160 Blackjack bomber out from under the nose of the People's Republic of China and flying it to Ramstein Air Force Base in Germany?"

She heard a sharp intake of breath at the other end of the phone. "Jesus," he said. "Absolutely. I can be on my way right now. Just tell me where to go."

"Vasylkiv Air Base, outside of Kiev."

"I'll be there in an hour."

Sarah hung up, and dashed back inside the house. "Mr. President, I have a third pilot," she informed him. "He's in Cherkasy, and will be here within the hour."

Yuschenko smiled. "Excellent."

His face grew serious again. "Ms. Walker, can you and Mr. Larkin keep something in your confidence?"

"Absolutely," she replied.

"I did not wish to sell the bombers to China," he said solemnly. "I despise Communists and everything they stand for. But you must understand the situation here in Ukrayina, and how far 2.4 billion Euros would go."

She nodded. "I do understand."

Yuschenko smiled again. "Very good. I called Vasylkiv Air Base while you were on the phone; the aircraft will be prepped within the hour."

He stood, Bryce following suit, and taking Sarah's hand in his own, kissed it, and then shook Bryce's hand.

"If I am not mistaken, you are a very lucky man, Mr. Larkin," Yuschenko said, a twinkle in his eye.

"And you, Mr. President, are a very perceptive man," Bryce replied.

"The best of luck to both of you," Yuschenko laughed, bidding them farewell.

* * *

The car delivered Sarah and Bryce back to Kiev-Zhuliany Airport in record time. Sarah dashed up the airstair into the Learjet, startling the two pilots.

"How would the two of you like the opportunity to each fly a Tu-160 bomber out of the Ukraine from under the noses of the Chinese to Ramstein Air Force Base in Germany?"

They both went from being startled to looking like little kids on Christmas in a heartbeat. The pilot quickly shut down everything, and he and the co-pilot were out of their seats immediately.

"What about the Lear?" the pilot asked, as they drove away.

"Embassy will take care of it," the driver replied from the front seat.

Two of the planes were almost ready to go by the time they reached Vasylkiv Air Base. The four government employees got out of the car to be greeted by a Ukrainian general.

"I am General Boris Rabatov," he introduced himself. "And yes, that is a Russian name, but Ukrayina is the country of my birth, and she is my home. I understand you are going to take these beautiful birds far, far away from the Communists?"

"That's the plan," Sarah replied, her excitement level building with each passing second. "These two USAF pilots will fly two of them. I have a third pilot on the way."

"Very good," General Rabatov replied. "I have volunteer crews from the Ukrainian Air Force on board each aircraft. They are happy to remain on the aircraft with your pilots; however, your pilots must actually fly the aircraft, so that they are clearly American property."

He pointed upwards, to where the Ukrainian flag had been sloppily painted over on the tails of the aircraft, with an American flag painted over them. "It is obviously an American aircraft, and the Chinese won't dare to bother you!" he laughed.

That was when Sarah realized that only two of the planes were ready. "What's going on with the third one?"

"We are having some trouble with the engines," Rabatov replied, a note of concern in his voice. "My men believe they can get them working within an hour, but they cannot make any guarantees."

"Well," Sarah replied, "if we can't fly it out, we'll destroy it."

Rabatov shook his head. "I cannot allow that," he said, solemnly. "The risk of toxic pollution is too great."

"Then your men better have that thing ready to fly before the Chinese get here," Sarah said sharply, switching to Russian.

Rabatov's eyes widened, and he snapped to attention. "Yes, ma'am," he replied in the same language.

Turning, he began barking orders in Ukrainian. His men began to move even faster, if that was possible.

Twenty minutes later, the two operating Blackjacks taxied to the runway. Five minutes after that, they took off, one behind the other, disappearing rapidly into the cloud cover.

With about two hours to go until the Chinese were scheduled to arrive, a black Lada sedan came rolling onto the airfield. Major John Casey jumped out.

"Agent Walker," he called. She turned, and crossed to greet him, Bryce in her wake. "Good to see you again."

"And you, Major Casey," she replied. "This is Field Agent Bryce Larkin."

"John Casey," he said, sticking out his hand.

Bryce took it. "Bryce Larkin."

"So, Walker, what's the deal with this aircraft?"

"They're having some trouble with the engines, but General Rabatov swore up and down that he'd have it ready before the Chinese arrived."

Just then, General Rabatov came running up to them, a worried look on his face. "Ms. Walker," he said hurriedly, "the aircraft is ready to fly, but there is a problem."

"What's that?"

"The Chinese delegation is early. They have just entered Ukrainian airspace."

Sarah's eyes widened. "Let's go, right now. Is there a crew onboard this aircraft as well?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Sarah didn't answer, just took off running, Bryce, Casey, and Rabatov trailing behind her. She hit the ladder into the aircraft at a dead run, and startled the Ukrainian crew inside. "Good afternoon. Ready to thwart the Chinese?" she asked them in Russian.

Smiles and nods broke out among the crew, who returned to pre-flight procedures.

Casey and Bryce followed her into the aircraft, Casey taking his place in the left hand seat of the cockpit. Bryce and Sarah buckled themselves into jumpseats in the back of the cockpit, Sarah donning a headset.

"This is General Rabatov," she heard him say over the system. "You are cleared for takeoff, and good luck."

"Thank you, General," she spoke into the microphone. "Casey! Let's go!"

She heard a whine from the back of the aircraft as the four huge Kuznetsov turbofans spooled up. The giant bomber began to move forward slowly, heading toward the runway.

As soon as Casey had the bomber lined up, he firewalled the throttles, engaging the aircraft's afterburners. It leapt forward down the runway, accelerating faster than anything either Sarah or Bryce had been in before.

Casey had just eased the plane off the runway and was beginning to climb when a harsh voice sounded in their headsets, coming over the GUARD channel in English.

"Tupolev 160 bomber over Kiev, this is the Air Force of the People's Republic of China. You are in possession of property of the People's Republic of China. You will lower your landing gear and return to Vasylkiv Air Base immediately!"

Casey didn't respond, just kept climbing. Sarah could see the faces of the Ukrainian crew beginning to go pale.

"Tupolev 160 bomber, please look out your starboard side."

Sarah looked out to the right – and saw a gunmetal grey fighter with a red star on the tail.

"As I'm sure you've realized, I am in a MiG-29 fighter. If you do not lower your landing gear and return to Vasylkiv Air Base immediately, you WILL be shot down."

Casey keyed his microphone. "PRC fighter off to my starboard side, this is the United States Air Force. Take a close look at the flag on the tail of this aircraft, and then do me a favor and _nǐ qù sǐ_."

Sarah had no idea what that meant, but Bryce's eyes widened. "Oh, shit, that pilot's gonna be pissed," he muttered.

"What did he just say?" Sarah asked.

"He told the pilot to go fuck himself."

Sarah's eyebrows went up, and she smiled, but her smile disappeared immediately as the Chinese fighter rapidly decelerated, dropping back behind them.

"Uh-oh," Casey said over the interphone.

A stream of tracers went shooting past the windows. "This is your last warning. Drop your landing gear and return to Vasylkiv Air –"

The warning was interrupted by a sonic boom as two more MiG-29 "Fulcrums" went streaking past. These ones had the blue and yellow flag of the Ukraine on their tail.

"Chinese fighter, this is the Air Force of Ukrayina," came the distinctive voice of General Rabatov on GUARD. "You are violating multiple international treaties by conducting military operations over the sovereign airspace of a country with which you are not engaged in hostilities. Disengage immediately and reverse course, or YOU will be shot down."

Sarah could hear the rage in the voice of the Chinese pilot as he spat, "Acknowledged," over GUARD.

"As they say in America, 'Happy trails!'" Rabatov said cheerily.

* * *

When the Tu-160 landed at Ramstein, they saw that the other two had already been pulled into satellite-fooling revetments. The CIA Learjet sat out on the tarmac, a Ukrainian An-72 transport parked next to it.

"How'd that get here?" Sarah asked, pointing to the Learjet, as she approached the CIA pilot.

"Ukrainian crew flew it up here," he replied. "They also flew the Antonov up here to take their crew back, and to retrieve their crews from the Blackjacks."

His face broke into a smile. "That was amazingly fun, Agent Walker. I need to fly you on missions more often!"

Sarah smiled. "Anyway," the pilot continued, "we got a call from Director Graham while you were in flight. He wants you and Agent Larkin back at Langley as fast as possible, and I've been ordered to bring Major Casey as well."

She nodded. "Casey!" she called, turning around. He poked his head out of the aircraft.

"What!"

"We have to go! They want us all in Washington!"

His face fell. "Aw, dammit, I wanted to poke around the aircraft some more!"

She laughed. "I'm sure you'll have plenty more chance to do that at other times!"

On the flight back, Bryce and Casey got to talking about some TV show or other called "Firefly", apparently because Bryce recognized the Chinese phrase that Casey had used as being from the show. It seemed a little more complex than Sarah cared to try to figure, especially when Bryce referred to something called the "Big Damn Movie," and Casey excitedly replied, "Curse your sudden but inevitable betrayal!"

When they landed, it was at Washington National Airport, not Langley, much to Sarah's surprise. The three were herded into a Suburban, and driven from the airport not across the river, but rather someplace Sarah hadn't been in over two years – the White House.

As the morning of the 29th dawned bleak over Washington, the three agents were escorted to the Oval Office, where the President waited for them. "You're all receiving an Intelligence Star for this one," he said, with no preamble, "which is your third, correct, Agent Walker, and your second, Major Casey?"

They both nodded.

"I wanted to present them personally, but I have to be quick, because the shit is about to hit the fan," the President said.

"Sorry, sir?" Casey asked.

The President pointed. The three agents turned to see a muted television behind them. It was a picture of chaos, winds whipping through a town at literally hurricane force speeds. The byline said New Orleans.

When they left the White House, Casey headed to NSA headquarters at Fort Meade. Sarah and Bryce headed back to Langley, their good mood muted by the knowledge of what was going on in Louisiana.

Their driver had the radio tuned to a news station. "Hurricane Katrina made landfall about twenty minutes ago," the announcer was saying. "It hit New Orleans as a Category Three storm. The damage it wreaked is unbelievable. From the helicopter shots I'm seeing, the French Quarter is under water. Interstate 10 is… it's just gone, and it's like the Ninth Ward was never even there."

"There are no words to describe it. It's just an utter disaster."


	15. The Operative

_**Author's Note:**__ for the second time, I have written a chapter based off of a prompt provided by the brilliant __**brickroad16**__: "the removal of a corrupt Brazilian government in just three months". Writing this chapter was a bit tricky, just as writing the Belgrade chapter was, because I had to create a fictional environment that dovetailed with actual history._

_There have been a number of questions posed to me lately asking, "When is Bryce going to turn into a douche?" and "If Sarah and Casey work so well together now, what's going to happen by the pilot episode to make them dislike each other so much?"_

_My answer to both of these questions is this:_

_All in good time, my friends, all in good time. According to the outline I drew up for myself, I've still got six chapters and an epilogue within which to answer these questions. I promise you, you will get answers._

* * *

**October 31****st****, 2005**

The first thing that Sarah noticed that morning when she entered the CIA Headquarters in Langley, Virginia, was the piece of paper taped to the main entrance.

Pulling it down, she read it as she made her way up to her rarely-used office. "95 Theses with regard to the Central Intelligence Agency," she muttered.

Sarah shook her head, smiling. Some smartass at the FBI had apparently decided that he was the second coming of Martin Luther, and that the CIA needed some reforming. Having decided that it was too amusing to toss, she stuck it to the wall of the elevator before she got off.

Upon reaching her office, she began to unlock the door, and then noticed something.

The door usually said "Special Agent Sarah Walker." But it had been changed. It now read "The Operative."

"What the hell is this?!" she exclaimed, just as Bryce walked up to her.

"Good morning, Sarah," he said with a smile. "What seems to be the – oh, dear."

Bryce turned around to face the analysis bullpen, and raised his voice. "What Joss Whedon fanboy son of a bitch thought he was being funny?"

"Uh, sorry, sir," came a voice from the back of the bullpen. An analyst who Sarah knew only as Williams stood up, Sarah's normal door sign in his hand. He brought it to Bryce.

"Completely uncalled for, Williams," Bryce said, as he replaced the sign. Sarah opened the door, and as she shut it behind her, she heard, "Don't let it happen again."

As soon as the door was shut, though, Bryce slipped the "Special Agent Sarah Walker" sign back out of its holder and put the "The Operative" sign right back where it had been. As the analysts stifled their laughter, he made an exaggerated "shush" sign with his hand, and then proceeded to creep off down the hallway.

Inside her office, Sarah blew a rather impressive layer of dust off of her laptop, creating a cloud that made her start coughing. After recovering, she opened the computer and booted it up.

The first thing it did when Windows XP had loaded was tell her that her virus definition files were eight months out of date. "Oops," she muttered, telling it to go ahead and update the files.

She pulled up her e-mail, and there were nasty e-mails from the administrative branch going back something like six months, demanding reports on the Mexico and Ukraine missions. She composed a mass reply to all of them that said, "Report classified. Please see Director Graham for further information." That should shut them up.

Then there were the e-mails from the General Services Administration, asking for an accounting of funds and resources used on the two missions. Those she couldn't ignore. So, with a sigh, she opened up Microsoft Excel, and while it was loading, reached down into her purse and pulled out a fat envelope full of receipts.

An hour later, she was still creating replies to the GSA when her desk phone rang. "Hallelujah," she said, picking it up. "Walker."

"Agent Walker… or should I say, 'Operative' Walker… this is Director Graham."

Sarah blew out a sigh. "What is it with this 'Operative' business?"

"I take it you haven't seen the movie _Serenity_?"

"No," Sarah replied, "and if you're talking about the _Serenity_ that's supposedly the sequel to that TV show _Firefly_, which I've never seen an episode of, I'm not interested in seeing it, either!"

"Alright, alright," Graham said, surrendering. "Could you come up to my office, please?"

"Absolutely."

Five minutes later, Sarah was in Graham's office. As she sat down, he tossed a folder on his desk. "General Geraldo Cardoso da Silva," he said. "President-for-Life of the Federative Republic of Brazil. Also a total bastard."

"I've heard about this guy," Sarah replied, confused. "I thought he had been doing good for Brazil. Everything I've seen, the people look happy, the country's economy is doing well…"

Graham shook his head. "The public face of Brazil and its reality are two very, very different things," he told her. "Homeless people get shipped off to work camps in the interior. Same with political dissidents, illegal immigrants, and basically anybody who da Silva doesn't like.

"Their economy is doing well because of drugs," he continued. "They ship drugs out through Colombia, Venezuela, so on and so forth. The cartels in those countries export them out – Colombia primarily to the United States and Canada, Venezuela to Australia, South Africa, the UK – all five of those countries having large populations of young, affluent people who seem to like to snort their money up their nose."

He took a moment to express his disgust at those individuals, and then continued. "The money goes back to the da Silva administration, which in turn invests it in high-yield bonds – mostly on the Euro market. As the Euro has skyrocketed against the dollar in the last few months, they've been making huge amounts of money. So, yes, Brazil is doing well, but on the backs of drug addicts."

He sighed. "Finally, their military is being a damn nuisance. They've somehow managed to get their hands on almost two thousand old M60 tanks – not top of the line equipment, but certainly better than anything anybody else in South America has. They bought India's two old aircraft carriers, the _Viraat _and the _Vikrant_, and renamed them the _Humberto de Alencar Castello Branco_ and the _Artur de Costa e Silva_, respectively. They've equipped those with enough A-4 Skyhawks and FRS Mk.1 Harriers to be a real annoyance.

"The worst part, though, is this – and I imagine it's going to particularly piss you off. Last month, they bought, from Russia, two Tu-160 Blackjack strategic bombers. Those were delivered last week, and they've been flying them up and down the Atlantic coast of South America, scaring the bejeezus out of everybody else."

Sarah just looked at Graham. "You have got to be goddamned bullshitting me," she finally uttered. "After everything we went through to keep those three Ukrainian Blackjacks out of the hands of the Chinese, the Brazilians just pony up the cash, and Russia says, 'Here ya go?'!"

Graham shrugged. "We just don't have the pull with Russia that we do with the Ukraine."

Sarah leaned forward until her forehead rested on the edge of Graham's desk. "Isn't life just super," she muttered.

"Walker," Graham said quietly. Slowly, she sat back up. "I want you to lead a team in Brazil to depose the current government."

"Really," she replied sarcastically. "Would you then like me to pull a monkey out of thin air? Reanimate the corpse of Richard Nixon, perhaps?"

"I'm serious, Agent Walker," he said. "Pick whoever you want, whatever resources you need, and do it."

"Fine," she replied. "I want Agent Bryce Larkin, Agent Carina Hansen, DEA, Major John Casey, NSA, Special Agent in Charge Silvester Villanueva, FBI, and Agent Markus Sobukwe, NIA of South Africa. I want a Dassault Falcon 7X aircraft at my disposal at all times, in addition to a UH-1H Twin Huey. I want USAF Captain Rick Mahoney assigned as the pilot of the Falcon, and I want authorization from the President to either steal or destroy those Blackjacks."

Graham leaned back. "So, let me get this straight. You want agents who are among the best from three different agencies, the Washington DC SAC, a foreign intelligence officer, an aircraft that hasn't yet been certified by the FAA, and a helicopter which we'll have to borrow from the Colombian Army, in addition to a pilot who ordinarily flies for the Thunderbirds, NOT TO MENTION authorization to conduct what amounts to a strategic strike against a titularly friendly nation. Did I miss anything?"

"No, but I did," Sarah said, thinking. "I need a co-pilot for the Falcon and a pilot for the Huey. I want them both to be either Marine Recon or Navy SEAL trained. Also, I want Father Michael O'Halloran there as the mission controller."

Graham shook his head. "What can I say, but… mi casa, su casa. You'll have everything, including authorization to destroy the Blackjacks."

* * *

Three days later, a gleaming black business jet streaked south toward Brazil at just under the speed of sound. The latest in Dassault's Falcon line, the aircraft was rated to travel at Mach 0.96. Supposedly, one of the test aircraft had broken the sound barrier in a dive, but Captain Rick Mahoney didn't figure his passengers were in any particular hurry to find out.

On board with Mahoney were his co-pilot, Marine Lieutenant Kayla Martinez, the Huey pilot, Marine Chief Warrant Officer Kevin Donaldson, FBI Special Agent Silvester Villanueva – the son of Portuguese immigrants, he had been picked for his language skills; NSA Major John Casey, plucked from a mission in Somalia; DEA Special Agent Carina Hansen, pulled from a drug enforcement mission on the Arizona-Mexico border; CIA Agent Bryce Larkin; CIA Agent Reverend Michael O'Halloran, who, though not actually in charge of the mission, would be the one who was really running things; and the mission leader, CIA Special Agent Sarah Walker, who everybody had taken to calling "The Operative", much to her chagrin. The only member of the team not on the plane was South African NIA Agent Markus Sobukwe, who would be meeting the team in Brasilia.

Sarah had spent the first two hours of the flight briefing her team, but now, she was seated in the back, next to Father Mike, catching up on how things were back "home".

They talked for a little while about how life was back in Boston, what he was doing with his time, some of the things she had done lately, but finally, it got around to the topic she'd been avoiding. "How's Dad?" she asked, with a sigh.

"It's strange," O'Halloran replied, his lilting Irish accent flavoring his voice. "Both good and bad. He misses ye a great deal, but his mind has begun to register yer prolonged absence as a negative, and has started to block it out. Most days, he doesn't realize that he hasn't seen ye for nearly three years. But some days are very bad – he'll wake up, and all he can think about all day is 9/11, yer mother's death, the fact that he hasn't seen ye since Christmas of 2002."

He shook his head. "It's goin' to be even worse this year – with me bein' absent from the parish – takin' a sabbatical, as it were – there's goin' to be a substitute there for Christmas, and that's bound to make him unhappy."

"Dammit," Sarah whispered, closing her eyes. "I didn't even think of that when I asked for you."

"Yer just doin' what a good CIA agent does, Sarah," O'Halloran replied. "Ye thought of yer country and the mission before yerself."

"But after the service my father gave, it seems like the country should think of him every so often," she sighed.

* * *

After arriving in Brasilia, the group went immediately to the American embassy, where Agent Sobukwe met them. The whole team, less the military pilots, met together in one of the secured conference rooms.

"Alright," Sarah began. "I have assignments for all of you. Major Casey – your assignment is to develop a way to infiltrate Santa Maria Air Base, in the city of Santa Maria, and destroy the two Tu-160 Blackjacks. Agent Hansen – you are to figure out who the leaders of the Rio de Janeiro Cartel are, and send them to speak with Jesus."

"Wow, an actual drug-related overseas mission," Carina deadpanned. "Unbelievable."

Sarah ignored her. "Agents Larkin and Sobukwe, your assignment is to tail General da Silva and his Chief of Staff, Gerhardt von Beethoven – no joke – and figure out any dirt you can get on them. I will be attempting to develop contacts with non-corrupt members of the Parliament. I will be posing as a wealthy German of some influence, and Agent Villanueva will be posing as my husband, a native of Brazil."

Bryce didn't look very happy about that last bit, but Sarah didn't have time to explain, so she moved on. "I will be in command of the overall operation; however, when you are in the field, you will report to Father O'Halloran. He is the controller of this mission, and will relay reports from you to me, in addition to relaying orders from me to you. He is also our contact with Washington, should you for any reason need to contact them."

Sarah stopped, then opened a cardboard box that had been delivered just before she began briefing. She reached in and withdrew a stack of slim black plastic boxes. "These contain your identification and your funding," she informed them. "Memorize your name. Make up your back story – it's fairly unimportant in this case, because the likelihood of you actually dealing with anybody is slim. There's an American Express Black card in there that matches your identity. Unlimited line of credit. You also have one thousand Brazilian _Reals_ in hard cash for use in the event of an emergency."

She paused. "Any questions?"

There were none. "Dismissed."

Everybody filed out of the room, except for Bryce. When everybody was gone except for him and Sarah, he approached her. "So, Villanueva's your husband for this mission, huh?"

"That's correct, Bryce." She looked up at him. "Is that a problem?"

"I guess… I don't feel comfortable with that, is all."

"It's the mission, Bryce. Just because I'm posing as Villanueva's husband in public doesn't mean that I'm going to be acting like his wife in private."

"I know that, but still. Here we are, in Brazil, and you're going out to pose as some FBI agent's wife, just as I've realized that I'm falling in l-"

Sarah's head whipped up, and she held up her hand to stop him. "Bryce, please, don't. Okay? Don't take this the wrong way, but that is the last thing I need to be dealing with right now. I need to be able to go into this mission with a clear head, not one that's clouded with emotions."

As she watched, Bryce's face took on a hard cast. Her words had clearly hurt him.

"Bryce," she said, softening her tone, "I'm sorry. That didn't come out right. I do care about you, I really do. But please just understand my motivations here. The last man that I admitted I fell in love with was killed forty minutes later. I'm sending you out on a mission that could get you killed, and you're going to be working with that man's partner. I just cannot have concern for you clouding my judgments throughout the duration of this mission."

Bryce's face didn't soften at all. "Fine," he replied, biting off the end of the word. "I understand. I will perform my mission to the best of my abilities. I wouldn't want concern to overshadow you at all,_Agent Walker_."

And with that, he stalked out of the conference room, leaving a very quiet and very hurt Sarah Walker behind him.

* * *

**November 17****th**

Two weeks into the mission, absolutely no progress had been made. Sarah was getting discouraged. Beyond that, though, she was dealing with exactly what she had wanted to not deal with – negative emotions caused by Bryce.

He hadn't spoken to her in any manner other than a professional one since the day in the conference room. She would find herself alternately mad at him and upset for herself that he wouldn't reconcile with her. The multiple times she had tried, he had simply brushed her off.

"It's a fucking nightmare, Markus," she had confided in the NIA agent after a few too many beers one night at the CIA-owned safe house. "I allowed myself to get close to another agent, and look what's happened to me. I'm stuck in Brasilia, trying to oversee a dead-end mission, while trying not to think about the fact that he's given me the cold shoulder for the last two weeks."

"Sarah, you just have to give him time to come around," Sobukwe replied. "You know, eventually he'll understand your reasoning for your actions on this mission, I'm sure. But I'm also sure it can't be easy for him to be working with me – you know, the knowledge that I was Piers' partner, the fear that he's being compared to Piers all the time."

"But he's not!" Sarah insisted. "Piers and Bryce are like night and day, apples and oranges. I loved Piers, I really did, but I have never compared Bryce to him. Bryce is just so different, in so many ways, and I like that so much about him…"

Her voice trailed off. Markus shook his head. "Why don't you tell him that?"

Sarah was trying to figure out how to respond when Father Mike came into the room. "Major Casey's on the phone," he informed Sarah. "He really needs to speak to you."

Frowning, Sarah picked up the kitchen extension. "Casey?"

"Walker, I've got it. I've got how to infiltrate the air base, and I know when I'm going to set the planes off to cause maximum political damage."

Sarah smiled. "My goodness, Casey, thinking in terms of something other than brute force?"

She could hear him laugh at the other end. "You got it! I'll go in the night of December 23rd, put the explosives on the planes – not much – just enough to destroy the landing gear struts, which, with the weight of the Blackjack, will cause them to crash to the ground hard enough to pretty much shatter the fuselage."

"And you said you had a when in mind as well?"

Sarah could almost hear Casey nod at the other end. "Christmas Eve. The commanding general of the Air Force – who happens to be one of da Silva's cronies – will be at Santa Maria Air Base, giving a speech, with the two planes parked RIGHT BEHIND HIM. They'll be destroyed on national television, totally blowing his credibility and putting a major dent in General da Silva's."

Sarah's smile grew bigger. Finally, something about the mission was going right. "Very well done, Major," she said. "You have my approval to get moving on this right away."

* * *

**Christmas Eve**

The television was on, and the team was watching the commanding general of Brazil's Air Force give his speech on national television. Sure enough, the two Tu-160 Blackjacks were parked right behind him. Agent Villanueva was giving a running translation of the speech.

At one point, the general turned and gestured to the bombers. "See here our two newest birds of prey," Villanueva translated. "This is how they would look if they were loaded for war, but fear not, citizens – these are but dummy missiles. They are no danger to you."

A few minutes later, Casey came in – and the beer bottle in his hand went crashing to the floor. "Why are those bombers loaded?" he gasped in horror.

"They're not, really," Sarah assured him. "The general himself just said that they're dummy missiles."

"The hell they are," Casey replied. "Dummies are painted blue. Those are painted white. Those are live, honest to God, Exocet cruise missiles."

Sarah's eyes widened in dread. "What, exactly, are you saying here, Casey?"

His face was pale, his hands trembling. "That when the explosive charges on the landing gear struts of those planes go off, and the planes come crashing down, one of those missiles could well be set off."

O'Halloran crossed himself. Villanueva, Sobukwe, and Bryce all looked horrified. Carina stared at the television, an emotionless mask covering her face. Sarah felt like she was going to be sick.

"We've got to stop them," she muttered, picking up the phone.

"It's too late," Casey replied. "Those charges are set to go off in less than twenty seconds."

Her heart feeling like it had been replaced with a boulder, Sarah slowly set the phone back in its cradle. Fourteen seconds later, a series of sharp cracks emanated from the television screen, and the two Blackjack bombers collapsed to the ground.

Nothing happened for a moment, other than the crowd gathered at the air base being highly alarmed. The agents all began to blow out a sigh of relief, but then –

Flame broke out along the leading edge of the left-hand Blackjack's starboard wing. Screams broke out within the crowd, as the flames licked closer and closer to one of the Exocet missiles –

And the screen went dark. "I really don't think we need to see that," Bryce said, as he turned off the television.

"I'm gonna be sick," Casey muttered, and staggered down the hallway toward the bathroom.

An hour later, Casey was still in the bathroom. The rest of the agents, still in shock, had dispersed throughout the house. Sarah found herself back in the living room, where Bryce sat. He had turned the television back on.

Even though she didn't know Portuguese, Spanish was similar enough for Sarah to get the gist of the news story airing – that is, if the helicopter shot of smoke and roiling flames wasn't enough.

Apparently, when the first Exocet had cooked off, it had set off the other five on that plane and all six on the other. The explosion had penetrated the air base's fuel farm, which then erupted in an explosion that knocked down buildings in the city of Santa Maria. Initial estimates were that there could be as many as ten thousand dead, mostly civilians. The primary suspect was Al Qaeda.

Her hands covering the lower half of her face, Sarah sank onto the couch. "I've become a terrorist," she whispered in horror.

Hearing her voice, Bryce turned around. "No, no you haven't," he said firmly, crossing to the couch and sitting down next to her. "You did what was necessary. Any time, any place, remember? Neither you nor Casey could've had any idea that that would happen."

"Bryce… ten thousand people are dead because of me."

"NOT because of you, Sarah," he said. "Because of General Geraldo Cardoso da Silva."

Sarah didn't say anything, just continued to sit, looking at the screen in horror. Without prompting, Bryce put one arm around her shoulder, then embraced her with the other, pulling her to him and holding her.

* * *

**Christmas Day**

International telephone service had been restored for Christmas, having been cut off the day before after the Santa Maria disaster. At about 7:00 AM, the phone rang.

"Hello?"

"WALKER!"

Sarah flinched, the voice of Director Graham booming out at her angrily. "Yes, sir."

"WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO? AT WHAT POINT DID I GIVE YOU AUTHORIZATION TO GO DOWN THERE AND START WORLD WAR FUCKING THREE?!"

Sarah winced. "We had faulty intelligence, sir. Major Casey was operating based on intelligence that said that the planes would be unarmed and unfueled for the demonstration. I would let you explain it to you himself, but… he seems to have gone missing."

"No, he hasn't," Director Graham replied darkly. "I can tell you exactly where Major Casey is. Apparently, yesterday, after your little escapade, he got drunk, and hopped on the first flight out of Brazil. He wound up in Atlanta, where he had a psychotic break. He is now under heavy guard in the mental health wing of the DeKalb Medical Center."

He paused to let that sink in. "So far, this mission has killed ten thousand people, been branded a terrorist action, and has turned one of the NSA's best agents into an overnight burn-out. The only reason I'm not pulling the plug on it, right now, is because whether by accident or design, yesterday's little incident has caused demonstrations and rioting against General da Silva's ruling party to break out in Rio de Janeiro and Sao Paulo."

Director Graham paused again. "The mission continues, Agent Walker. But be warned – you screw up again, and you're done."

* * *

On January 3rd, a story ran in _Jornal do Brasil_, discussing how General Geraldo Cardoso da Silva seemed to have a secret sexual proclivity for underage girls. Given that Brazil is a heavily Roman Catholic country, the people were by and large disgusted. With da Silva's credibility already in the toilet after the Christmas Eve disaster, it was almost completely wiped out by this story, especially when he didn't come right out and deny it.

Though few would ever know it, the story was planted with the editors of _Jornal do Brasil_ by Ronaldo and Mieke Canto – a husband and wife couple who claimed to work for the Brazilian government, and believed that da Silva and his habits would bring the country to its knees.

When later asked to describe the couple, the editor-in-chief said that the husband was unremarkable, an average Brazilian man, but the woman – "Ah, she was a sight to see," he breathed, the memory clearly a good one. "Flawless skin of alabaster, blonde hair spun of gold, two perfect sapphires for eyes… clearly of German stock, and so beautiful."

On January 11th, a Brazilian legislator - Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva – was contacted by the woman, Mieke Canto. She had suggested that his cousin, General da Silva, might be stepping down from the Presidency soon, and as a good and honorable member of the Brazilian legislature, he might want to offer his services to the nation as its next President.

On the evening of January 17th, General da Silva was at his home, agonizing over the decision he would make, when a woman, dressed all in black, appeared in his office.

"How did you get past my guards?!" he demanded, terrified.

"That is of no consequence," the woman replied, speaking in English. Da Silva studied the woman. She was beautiful – flawless skin, blonde hair, bright blue eyes. The very woman his cousin had described to him. Under ordinary circumstances, she would have been the stuff of dreams.

But these were not ordinary circumstances. "Tomorrow, you will resign," she informed him.

"And if I do not?"

"Then you will die," she said, her voice low and even. "It was I who told the_Jornal do Brasil_ of your… tastes… and it was I who destroyed Santa Anita Air Base. Do you doubt that I can kill you as well?"

Da Silva felt like his heart had stopped. "I do not doubt you at all," he replied, his voice barely a whisper. "But tell me, who are you?"

A grim smile appeared on her face. "General da Silva, you may call me… the Operative."

Leaving da Silva to contemplate his fate, Sarah Walker departed his residence, untouched.

On January 18th, 2006, General Geraldo Cardoso da Silva resigned as the President of Brail. His cousin, Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva, was named interim president. He called for new elections as soon as they could be held.

On January 31st, Major John Casey was released from DeKalb Medical Center in Atlanta, Georgia. He was deemed to be mentally competent to return to work; however, for the time being, the National Security Agency decided it would be best for him to be assigned to a desk position.

John Casey made it quite clear that he blamed Special Agent Sarah Walker of the Central Intelligence Agency for his mental breakdown. He claimed that she had pushed him to deliver results as part of the mission, and as a result, he had acted based on faulty intelligence.

Sarah Walker received a classified official reprimand from the Central Intelligence Agency for her role in the Christmas Eve disaster at Santa Anita Air Base. Ironically, she also received a classified official commendation for her role in the removal of the da Silva regime.

Sarah was also removed from supervisory duty. It was the opinion of the CIA that she was too hot-headed to oversee missions such as the Brazil mission. Needless to say, she was not pleased with this decision, but Director Graham gave her a choice – deal with it or quit.

She dealt with it.

On February 12th, Sarah was working late in her office, when there was a knock at her door.

It was Bryce.

"Hi," he said quietly. "So, I know we haven't gotten along the greatest lately, but what I tried to say in Brazil three months ago – it still stands. And since Tuesday is Valentine's Day, and I couldn't take you out last year, I was wondering if maybe I could do so this year?"

Sarah closed her eyes and sighed, and then smiled. She stood up, and crossed the office to Bryce. Wordlessly, she wrapped her arms around him and hugged him. After a moment, she pulled back and gently kissed him.

"Bryce," she said, "I apologize for everything that happened down there. I was out of my depth, and trying to control everything – including you. I shouldn't have done that, and I'm sorry.

"I was just so scared of the thought of losing you. I don't know if I could handle falling in love again and then having my world ripped apart all over again."

Bryce smiled. "Did you just admit that you've fallen in love with me?"

Sarah smiled back. "Perhaps."

"Well, that's good," Bryce replied, "because it turns out that I'm madly in love with you."

He kissed her then, with much more urgency than she had kissed him a moment before. When he pulled back, she smiled again, and shook her head.

"Well, here's hoping this doesn't turn into a problem," she whispered.


	16. Down on Jefferson

Bryce Larkin slowly and painfully extricated himself from his seat.

What had ten minutes before been a Lear 35J – or a VC-21, as the Air Force designated it – was now a smoking heap of scattered wreckage. There had been a huge explosion, and the Lear had headed for the ground.

Having been on approach to Reagan National Airport, the pilots had not had much of a chance to aim the plane for an unpopulated area. They had aimed it for the Potomac River, but it had skipped off the water and crashed onto the island that housed the Jefferson Memorial.

Miraculously, the plane seemed to have largely missed the white monument to the third President – a chunk or two of plaster and marble seemed to be missing from some columns, but that was about it. However, a crowd of terrified but curious people was now gathering around the wreckage.

Sarah had been sitting at the other end of the cabin. Bryce couldn't find her. "SARAH!"

He looked around. "SARAH!"

He started searching for her. No luck. He did find the part of the fuselage that the cockpit was in, though.

Bryce wrenched open the door. Captain Rick Mahoney and Lieutenant Kayla Martinez sat in the cockpit – both dead. Mahoney's eyes were wide open, his mouth open in shock.

Where the hell was Sarah?!

That's when he saw it – blonde hair, sticking out from under a bush. He ran to the bush, which had clearly been misshapen by something.

He looked under, and there was Sarah, still strapped into her seat. The seat had come loose and slid across the ground, coming to rest under the bush. She had horrendous scrapes on her face from sliding across the sidewalk at high speeds, and she had to have internal injuries.

Gently, Bryce reached in and released the seatbelt, catching her before she could fall to the ground. He slowly dragged her out from under the bush, and checked her vitals.

She was barely breathing, and her pulse was thread. He looked around, and pointed at the first person he made eye contact with. "YOU!" he shouted, pointing.

The teenager made a hand motion like, _Who, me?_

"Yeah, you," Bryce said. "Call 911!"

"What should I tell them?"

That's when Bryce saw the headlights. Two old pickup trucks, coming across the bridge on Ohio Drive. Flying down the road, really.

Bryce had a choice. Save Sarah's life or save the lives of the hundreds of people at the monument.

Bryce looked at the teenager. "Tell them that Hizbollah just shot down a Learjet over the Jefferson Memorial, and that they're on their way to clean up."

* * *

_Two weeks earlier_

"Agent Walker, Agent Larkin, you are going to Israel," Director Graham said.

"Why Israel?"

"We're getting some bad, bad vibes from the Holy Land," Graham replied. "We're afraid that le merde is about to hit the fan, as it were."

"Like what?" Sarah looked at him curiously.

"Like Hizbollah's getting restless, like the Lebanese have been restless for over a year – ever since their former president was assassinated. It's just not a good situation over there, and I want somebody there who I can trust to keep their eyes on it."

Director Graham gave Sarah a piercing look. "I can trust you, correct, Agent Walker?"

Sarah bowed her head. Ever since the curious mixture of failure and success in her Brazil mission several months before, she had sort of been on the bench. She'd been doing a lot of office work, a lot of analysis, and not much field work.

So, to be sent back out in the field – especially on as sensitive an assignment as anything in Israel was – was huge for her. "Yes, sir, you can trust me."

"Very good," he said. "There's one more thing, though."

He sighed, clearly not wanting to say what he had to. "After the Brazil mission, I removed you from supervisory duties. I thought that it would be temporary. However, the House Intelligence Committee has decided to make it permanent. You will not be Agent Larkin's superior on this mission. You will be partners."

Sarah wasn't really surprised to hear the words, but they still came like a punch in the gut. Who was Congress to say that she wasn't fit to be a supervisory officer? How many of them had ever been in the field?

She bit back her thoughts. "Yes, sir."

Sarah kept her composure all the way back to the apartment she shared with Bryce. They had moved in together back in May, and were still getting a little accustomed to living with each other.

She walked into the living room and slouched down on the couch, keeping her face carefully guarded. Picking up the remote, she turned on the TV. A rerun of _House_.

As she sat back to watch Hugh Laurie try to kill his patient in new and inventive ways, Bryce walked into the room. "We don't really have any food in the kitchen."

They never had any food in the kitchen. Who was he kidding?

"You okay with Subway?" he asked.

"Yeah, fine."

"What do you want?"

"I don't really care," Sarah replied. "Just, make sure there are no olives on it. I hate olives. And if you get cheese on whatever it is, make sure you don't get muenster. I hate that almost as much as olives."

"Dually noted," Bryce replied. "Extra olives, and slabs of muenster."

Sarah cracked a little bit of a smile, but didn't really come out of her self-imposed shell. "I'll be back in a few," Bryce said.

* * *

Three days later, they were in Tel Aviv. The IDF had graciously allowed them to be observers in what was rapidly turning from a border conflict into an all-out war. They had been told, however, that there was no possible way they'd be allowed anywhere near the fighting.

On July 21st – nine days into the conflict – Sarah and Bryce finally convinced a Mossad agent to take them up to the front. What they saw at the border was fairly horrific.

Damage from Hizbollah rockets that had been fired into Israel was nightmarish, and judging by the amount of ammunition that Sarah saw flying in the opposite direction, she figured that it had to be just as bad, if not far worse, on the Lebanese side. All because a bunch of hotheaded militants couldn't keep their rockets to themselves.

"What exactly does Hizbollah have against Israel?" she asked the Mossad agent, Michael ben Jakob.

"They believe that we have usurped their Holy Land," ben Jakob replied. "And that's not entirely untrue. The West Bank and Gaza aren't really Israeli territory, and the government has said that they're willing to give the territory up to make a Palestine."

"So, what seems to be the problem?" Bryce asked.

"It's a difficult situation," the Mossad agent said. "Fatah, the party that Yassir Arafat founded out of the PLO, would be happy to take the territory. They're tired of the fighting, of the pointless death. They just want to live in their own land, and you can't really fault them – that's why Israel was founded too.

"But the militant groups – Hamas and Hizbollah, with heavy support from Iran and Al Qaeda – don't think that's good enough. They won't rest until Israel has been wiped from the map. They say it is 'the will of God', which is utter bullshit, because if you actually study the Koran, it makes it quite clear that war is abhorrent and that peace is the will of God."

Sarah looked at ben Jakob curiously. "You've studied the Koran?"

"I'm an intelligence agent, Ms. Walker, just like you. One of my biggest things is that you should know your enemy. That's why I studied the Koran – to know, to try to understand, the motivation of my enemy. And the thing is, studying the Koran has helped me to better understand and to respect the millions of Arabs and Muslims who AREN'T my enemy."

She nodded. "That makes sense."

As she spoke, a hail of bullets erupted in front of the Hummer they were in. "Exactly what does the Koran say about that?" Bryce asked wryly.

Ben Jakob chose to ignore him, instead standing on the brakes and throwing the Hummer into reverse. The gunners aiming at them got better aim, and Sarah heard bullets pinging off of the Hummer's body.

"The gunfire's coming from that old van over there!" Bryce shouted, pointing.

"Agent Walker!" ben Jakob yelled, keeping his eyes on the road. "There's a LAW missile in the back. If you can get that out, can you poke up through the turret and take the van out?"

"I think so!" she replied. Digging around in the back of the Hummer, she uncovered the light anti-tank weapon. Attaching the trigger unit to the tube, she waited while it warmed up.

Opening the turret in the top of the Hummer, she stood up, aimed the missile, and waited till she got a tone. She tried desperately to ignore the poorly aimed bullets whizzing past from the van, in hot pursuit of them.

Finally, the missile sounded a steady tone. Sarah pushed the launch button.

The missile rapidly departed the tube, flying toward the van. It hit the engine compartment and exploded.

The van came to an immediate halt, the front end being shoved down while the back end flipped up and over. It slammed down on its roof and exploded.

"Nice shooting, Agent Walker," ben Jakob said.

"Thanks, I think," she replied.

When they returned to the IDF outpost, she was shocked to see a picture of herself on a television screen. It was a grainy picture, but still identifiable as her. The network bug in the corner identified it as Al-Jazeera.

An English translation was running at the bottom of the screen. "This is the Zionist terrorist responsible for the death of Commander Hamid Al-Buswar," the translation said. "Hizbollah is offering a reward of ten thousand Euros for whoever kills her."

Bryce looked at Sarah. "Shit," he uttered.

"We've got to get you out of here, now," Michael ben Jakob insisted. "Agent Larkin, call Ben Gurion Airport, get your airplane ready to go. You have to leave Israel right now, or you're as good as dead."

"I don't understand," she said. "Who the hell is Hamid Al-Buswar?"

"He was a Hizbollah commander," ben Jakob replied. "He must have been in that van you blew up.

"He shot first!"

"That does not matter to religious fanatics," ben Jakob said, picking up a Kevlar vest. "Put this on."

Sarah, beginning to get a little dazed, complied, slipping her arms through the holes. Ben Jakob made her put on a helmet as well, and then led her and Bryce outside to a different Hummer.

This one had no windows, and appeared to have enough armor to stop a crashing satellite. "When we reach Ben Gurion, I will pull up right next to the airstair," he said. "Get out and immediately get into your airplane. Tell them to take off as soon as you're onboard."

As they sped through the streets of Tel Aviv, ben Jakob grew a worried look on his face. "We have somebody on our tail," he said.

The first bullets flew past the armored Hummer just before they reached Ben Gurion Airport. Fortunately, there were IDF units waiting at the gates of the airport. The Hummer passed; the two pickup trucks behind them were stopped.

Ben Jakob did a powerslide up to the Lear that would have done a drift racer proud, pulling up right next to the airstair. "GO!" he shouted.

Sarah and Bryce practically dove out of the Hummer and ran up the stairs. "Go NOW!" Sarah shouted to the cockpit as Bryce closed the door.

Ben Jakob was driving back to the gate when he noticed a man standing by the airfield fence, a pair of binoculars in hand. "That is not good," he said.

That was the last thing he said, right before the TOW missile hit the side of his Hummer and erupted into the interior.

* * *

Mahmoud "Mark" al-Rahim was just closing up his shop for the evening when the phone rang. An immigrant from Palestine as a teenager, he had made a fairly successful name for himself as a custom car designer in Arlington. In fact, he was THE man to go to if you wanted a custom Mustang, Charger, Camaro – you name it.

"Arlington Customs, this is Mark," he answered the phone.

"An angel alights upon the pillar," was the reply, and then the phone was hung up.

Al-Rahim's stomach dropped. When he had left Palestine, he had been told by Arafat himself that he might get that phone call someday. He had specific instructions on what to do.

Locking up the shop, he got into his 1969 Pontiac GTO Judge, and drove about two miles from the shop. He stopped at a 7-11, got out, and dialed a number on the payphone.

"You have a target," he was informed, with no preamble. "It is a Learjet, identifier N9957CJ. Its flight plan is to Reagan National Airport. You are to shoot it down."

He drove back to the shop, and went into the back. He opened the trunk of a 1967 Oldsmobile 88 which had been "under restoration" for years.

Al-Rahim never planned to actually restore it. It was the storage compartment for a solitary Stinger missile, which he loaded into the non-descript Chevy Corsica he kept around for something like this.

He got in the car and drove a couple miles, till he was just outside the airport boundary. Opening up his glovebox, he removed a device and plugged it into the cigarette lighter. It lit up immediately.

It was an ingenious little device, really. Compact, efficient, it used a radio signal to hack into the radar data used by the National tower. Then, he could isolate any one radar return and track it to whatever point he wanted.

After about ten minutes, N9957CJ came onto the screen. He isolated the return and waited.

Five minutes later, the device indicated that the Learjet was in visual range. Pulling the Stinger out of the backseat, he looked out the shotgun window with a pair of binoculars. Yep, there it was. N9957CJ on the tail.

Al-Rahim aimed the Stinger missile. After a minute, he got a lock-on tone – the Stinger's infrared seeker had locked onto the Lear's port engine. He waited another second to be sure, and then fired.

The Stinger whooshed out of its tube, propelled by a burst of compressed air, and then, as soon as it was free of the tube, the rocket ignited. It rapidly accelerated upwards.

* * *

"SHIT! Rick, somebody just launched a missile at us!" Lieutenant Kayla Martinez shouted.

Rick Mahoney's eyes went wide. He hit the PA button. "EVERYBODY GET INTO CRASH POSITIONS!" he shouted.

In the cabin, Sarah Walker's eyes went wide. She had sat at the opposite end of the cabin from Bryce so that he could get some sleep while she worked, but now she found herself wishing she was next to him.

Nonetheless, she made sure her seatbelt was tight as it could be. Remembering what it showed on the old airline emergency cards, she bend at the waist, covering her head with her hands.

In the cockpit, Mahoney had jerked the Lear into evasive maneuvers – but it was no good. The Stinger was one of the best pieces of technology ever developed by Raytheon, and it flew straight and true.

* * *

As al-Rahim watched, the Learjet took desperate evasive maneuvers. But it was no use. The Stinger flew directly to the port engine, and exploded.

The debris and the explosion combined to make the port engine lock and tear itself apart. There was a secondary explosion as it blew itself off the fuselage of the aircraft.

Al-Rahim watched as the Learjet veered off. He watched it through his binoculars. It made him almost sick as he watched it bounce off the Potomac River and spin up onto the island the Jefferson Memorial was on.

In silence, he drove back to his shop. As he entered it, though, his conscience started talking to him.

"I have sinned," he whispered. "Allah, forgive me. Forgive me for my sin, and for what I am about to do."

Going to his office, he spun open his safe. Reaching in, he retrieved two loaded Ingrams MAC-10 submachine guns. Walking outside, he went to the GTO and tossed the guns in the shotgun seat.

* * *

Bryce had a choice. Save Sarah's life or save the lives of the hundreds of people at the monument.

Bryce looked at the teenager. "Tell them that Hizbollah just shot down a Learjet over the Jefferson Memorial, and that they're on their way to clean up."

As the teenager did that, Bryce gently laid Sarah down on the grass. "LISTEN UP!" he shouted, jogging toward the people gathered around the wreckage. "I NEED EVERYBODY TO GET INSIDE THE JEFFERSON MEMORIAL, RIGHT NOW, AND GET ON THE GROUND!"

Interestingly enough, nobody argued with him. "Here we go," he said, unholstering his gun. "Me against Hizbollah."

As the trucks drew closer, he raised the gun – and then something totally unexpected happened.

A Pontiac GTO came roaring down Ohio Drive, darting between the two trucks. Then the driver did something insane.

* * *

Mark al-Rahim yanked up on his emergency brake and yanked the wheel to the left, causing the GTO to do a one-eighty. Gritting his teeth at the knowledge of what he was doing to his transmission, he jammed it into reverse and hit the gas.

Steering with his knees, he grabbed the two MAC-10s. Shooting out the windshield, he aimed at the two oncoming pickup trucks. "Eat shit and die!" he yelled

He hit the driver of one of the pickup trucks. The truck lost control, skidding across the road, right into the path of the other truck. Al-Rahim kept firing, even as the GTO rolled further and further away.

Finally, a lucky bullet found the gas tank of one of the two trucks. It fireballed, the other joining it quickly. He stood on the brakes and the clutch, coming to a stop next to a very perplexed looking man who was, himself, holding a gun.

"Jesus Christ," the man uttered. "Who the hell are you?"

"Just a concerned citizen," al-Rahim replied.

He was about to drive off when the man got a thoughtful look on his face. "How fast does this thing go?"

Al-Rahim almost laughed. "How fast do you want it to go?"

"Very," the man said urgently. "I was in a plane that crashed here, and a friend of mine, I think she was badly injured."

Mark's face went pale. He was talking to one of the people he had been sent to kill. As he closed his eyes and thanked Allah that the man was still alive, he had to fight down the bile building in his stomach.

"Where is she?"

* * *

Six hours later, Sarah awoke in the Ronald Reagan Institute of Emergency Medicine at George Washington University. It turned out that she had broken her left arm and her right lung had deflated. She had also lost some blood, but all in all, it wasn't as bad as it could have been.

"What happened?" she asked softly.

"Somebody shot us down, and we crashed at the Jefferson Memorial," Bryce replied. "FBI has no idea who. They don't even know where to begin."

"What happened after that?"

"The strangest thing," he said. "Two pickup trucks came flying down Ohio Drive. I had this premonition that they were sleeper cells, coming to finish the job – and according to the NSA, it turns out I was right.

"But just before they reached us, some guy in an old Pontiac GTO came flying down the street, did some driving that you would've been proud of, and using MAC-10s that he got from God knows where, took out the trucks before they could reach us."

"Who was he?" Sarah asked, a look of puzzlement on her face.

"I have no idea," Bryce replied, "and he didn't say. But given the weapons that he had, I'd say there's a chance that he was himself a sleeper who had a change of heart."

"Did you tell anybody?"

Bryce shook his head. "No, and I'm not going to. If he hadn't been there to get you to the hospital, you might have lost too much blood.

"As far as I know, he was just a concerned citizen trying to help out."

* * *

_**Author's note:**__ Unlike the events of the previous chapter, this one takes place peripheral to what was a very real event._

_The __**Second Lebanon War/July War**__ between Israel and Lebanon took place between July 12__th__ and August 14__th__, 2006. It was instigated when Hizbollah militants attacked two Israeli HMMWVs patrolling the border. Of the seven soldiers in the two Hummers, two were wounded, three were killed, and two were abducted. In response, Israel launched massive airstrikes and artillery bombardment on targets in Lebanon._

_By the time the conflict ended, more than a thousand people – mostly Lebanese civilians – had been killed. During the course of the conflict, approximately 975,000 Lebanese and as many as 500,000 Israeli civilians were displaced from their homes. Most were able to return, but some parts of Southern Lebanon still remain uninhabitable due to unexploded cluster bombs._


	17. London Bridge is Falling Down

**October 25****th****, 2006**

"Beatles."

"Rolling Stones!"

"The Beatles!"

"The Beatles broke up in 1970. All of ten years as a band. The Rolling Stones have been going for forty-five years!"

Bryce shrugged. "You say what you want. I still think the Beatles were the better band."

Sarah couldn't believe what she was hearing. "You know what, John Lennon introduced Yoko Ono to the band, and that was the end of things. The worst thing Mick Jagger ever introduced to the Rolling Stones was marijuana!"

Bryce glared at her. "The Beatles had twenty-one singles hit number one on the US charts. How many have the Rolling Stones had?"

Sarah knew she was beat on that one. "Eight."

Bryce smiled smugly. "I rest my case."

But Sarah wasn't giving up that easily. "So the Beatles were more commercially successful than the Rolling Stones have been. So what? The Rolling Stones are, musically, massively superior."

Bryce rolled his eyes. "By what standards?"

"Mick Jagger. Keith Richards. Brian Jones. Bill Wyman. Four of the most musically talented people in the industry. Who'd the Beatles have? Paul McCartney, okay. He's good. John Lennon, let himself be blinded to music by Yoko Ono. George Harrison, also okay. Ringo Starr – waste of space."

Bryce sighed. "It's pretty clear that you're not going to let me win this argument."

"You're goddamn right I'm not!" Sarah shot back.

"I don't understand why you're so insistent on this," Bryce tried to reply, but it was clear that Sarah wasn't paying attention, as she headed for the cockpit of the Falcon.

She knocked on the door, which was opened from within. Bryce saw her stick her head inside, then hand something into the cockpit. Sarah returned to Bryce, a smug smile on her face.

A moment later, a very distinctive guitar riff began playing over the airplane's P.A. system. Shortly thereafter, words began to pour out – "I can't get no satisfaction…"

Bryce rolled his eyes, the Rolling Stones playing out as the aircraft winged its way toward London.

* * *

The thing about this trip was that what Bryce thought it was and what Sarah knew it was were two totally different things. Bryce thought that it was a combination research trip and vacation; Sarah knew that it was an assassination.

There was an individual living in London who was making the United States intelligence community very uneasy. A former KGB agent, he had sought asylum in London in 2000, and had begun working with the SIS, the British counterpart to the CIA, which most people mistakenly called MI-6, following the Bond movies.

The thing was, he had, during his time with the KGB, learned a great deal about American intelligence services. He had passed many of these things along to SIS, and had made it quite clear that he was about to go public with information that could be hugely embarrassing and potentially very, very damaging to the United States.

Overtures had been made to him to try to get him to "see the light" and back off from his plans. However, he was determined to go forward with his plans, leaving the United States no choice – at least, in the eyes of the administration.

The decision had been made to eliminate the former KGB agent. It was to be done in a way that would cast suspicion on Russia, and make everybody think that he had been eliminated by his own mother country.

This would not be an easy task; however, the CIA had made it quite clear that they could accomplish it. This would not be a shooting, or a seduction and stabbing – rather, they planned to use a slow-acting radioactive isotope to poison the former agent – polonium-210.

The agent selected to eliminate her former KGB counterpart was Special Agent Sarah Walker. She had had a very rough year to that point – an official reprimand following a disastrous mission in Brazil, removal from supervisory duty, having a bounty placed on her head by Hizbollah, and surviving a terrible plane crash in Washington, DC. However, it was agreed that within the CIA, she was unmatched for ability and skill.

In the interests of making it a mission that entailed a fair amount of plausible deniability, the CIA had elected to send her under the cover of a research mission, liaising with counterparts within the SIS. To that end, they had assigned Bryce Larkin, her professional and personal partner, to accompany her on the trip. However, Larkin was kept in the dark on the true nature of the trip.

In fact, only a dozen people knew of the true nature of the trip – Sarah Walker herself, CIA Director Graham, the President, the Vice-President, and the majority and minority leaders and 

whips of both the House and the Senate. The members of Congress had been informed that this was a delta-classified mission, and that any revelation of any details of the mission would result in federal prosecution.

And so it was that as the plane winged its way toward London, Sarah had begun the argument with Bryce about who was better – the Rolling Stones or the Beatles, trying to take her mind off of what she was about to do. Having loved the Rolling Stones since she could understand what music was, she hadn't had to work very hard to make it a convincing argument.

Upon landing, they were met by a car and driver from the SIS. He took them first to their hotel, the London Millennium. "Nice digs," Bryce remarked upon checking into their room. "The CIA actually ponied up for this?!"

"Just don't tell anybody in the GAO," Sarah said with a smile. "They'll stick us in Motel 6 next time."

From the hotel, they went to SIS headquarters – or, as Bryce jokingly said when they got back in the car, "Universal Exports, please."

The driver groaned. "Yeah, never heard that one before, sir."

The next several days, Bryce and Sarah spent most of their time at SIS headquarters at 85 Vauxhall Cross. Bryce spent a good deal of time comparing intelligence gathering techniques with SIS field agents. Sarah spent a small amount of time discussing missions with SIS brass, especially her recent mission in Israel, but spent a larger amount of time by herself, working on the specifics of her mission at hand.

On November 1st, Bryce headed to Vauxhall Cross by himself, Sarah claiming to be under the weather. As soon as he was gone, though, she began to prepare for her mission.

The first thing she did was set up an observation post of sorts that looked out the window onto the approach to the hotel below. A high-definition digital video camera plugged into her laptop, which in turn plugged into the wide-screen HDTV in the front of the room.

The next thing she did was to set up a trunk-line interception point. A simple device, plugged into the phone line in the wall, and then plugged into her laptop, the interceptor would register every call dialed from any phone in the hotel. She had the software set up to automatically ignore anything that didn't come from the target's room.

Sarah spent the next two hours preparing the tools she would need once the mission began. She laid out, ironed, and starched a uniform identical to what the female staff at the Millennium wore. She then retrieved a vial from where it was stashed in a secret compartment behind a fake wall in her suitcase.

Opening it, she spilled out four capsules that looked remarkably like Tylenol gel caps. The difference was, these were actually capsules filled with the isotope polonium-210, mixed with saline. As long as they stayed sealed, Sarah was perfectly safe, so she was extraordinarily careful with them.

Keeping a close eye on the television, she watched as the three men she was waiting for arrived over a thirty minute period. The first man to arrive was another former KGB agent – Dmitry Kovtun. He was not a target for assassination, but Director Graham had made it clear that no tears would be shed if he should find himself dead.

About twenty minutes later, another man arrived. Very little was known about him other than his name – Vladislav Sokolenko. The only intelligence the United States had on him was that he had once operated in Chechnya, and this was only known because Major John Casey of the NSA had identified him as somebody he had seen in Grozny following a market bombing in 2004.

Ten minutes later, the final man arrived. Andrei Lugovoi, another former KGB agent and the owner of a high-end Russian beverage company. Again, not a target, but not somebody the United States would object to seeing dead.

Sarah waited another twenty minutes before she was able to move into action. During the twenty minute wait, she donned her uniform, placed the polonium-210 capsules back in their vial, and slipped the vial into a pocket in her jacket.

Finally, her laptop beeped, indicating a call from the target's room. She turned up the volume.

"Hello, Room Service, this is Martina, how may I assist you?"

"Yes, I'm in suite 1704. Could I have tea service sent up please?"

"Absolutely, sir. That will be up in just a few minutes."

The call disconnected. Sarah left her room, and headed down the hallway to the service elevator. Boarding it, she took the elevator down to the basement, where the room service kitchen was located.

Just as she arrived, she saw one of the kitchen staff putting a pastry tray on a cart with two teapots on it. "Is this the tea for 1704?" she asked, adopting a credible Polish accent.

"Yeah, that's for the bloody Russians," the kitchen staff replied. "Take it away."

Sarah grabbed the cart, and rolled it back into the service elevator. Hitting the button for the seventeenth floor, she positioned herself so that she obscured the security camera's view of the teapots on the cart.

Very carefully, keeping her motions slight so that the camera would not register them from behind, Sarah slipped the vial out of her pocket. Opening the left hand teapot, she dropped the four capsules into it. They plastic coating would dissolve in about forty seconds, and the polonium-210 would then mix with the tea, creating a very poisonous beverage indeed.

When she reached the seventeenth floor, Sarah rolled the cart out of the elevator, turning left to head down the hallway. Stopping at 1704, she knocked on the door. "Room service!"

It was answered a moment later by Lugovoi. "Excellent, please come in," he said.

She rolled the tea cart into the suite. Setting cups and saucers for the four men, she then placed the pastry tray on the table. Picking up the left teapot, she began to pour – the target first. She filled his cup, which he immediately picked up and began to drink from. She turned to her right to fill the next cup – but as she did so, Sokolenko stood, jostling her, and causing the teapot to slip out of her hands.

It crashed to the ground, spilling its contents all over Sarah and Sokolenko's shoes.

"Oh, I am so sorry," she apologized, her fake Polish accent coming out again.

"No, it's my fault," Sokolenko replied in a strangely creepy voice. "Please, let me help you with that."

He bent down and picked up the teapot, placing it back on the tray. Sarah picked up the other, non-poisonous teapot, and poured tea for the rest of the men. As there was still tea in it, she left the tea service for the men. As she was departing, Sokolenko handed her a five pound note, apologizing again.

When Sarah returned to her room, she stripped everything she was wearing, down to her underwear, and stuffed it all in a laundry bag, which she tied tightly shut. She went immediately to the bathroom, and turned on the shower as hot as she could. If any of the contaminated tea had made contact with her skin, it had to be washed off as quickly as possible.

After spending nearly twenty minutes in the shower, Sarah exited, dried off, and dressed in her usual mission outfit – all black. Picking up the laundry bag, she went downstairs, exiting through a stairwell, and made her way to the back of the hotel. Going to the incinerator, she tossed the bag in. It would be gone for good within the hour.

By the time Bryce returned that afternoon, Sarah had put all her equipment away once more, had dressed in a Packers t-shirt and basketball shorts, and returned to the bed. She was watching _Doctor Who_ on the BBC when Bryce entered the room.

"I'm much better looking than David Tennant," Bryce informed her, looking at the television. "How are you feeling?"

"Better," she replied. "How was your day?"

"Boring as hell!" he laughed.

The next day, Sarah and Bryce flew back to Washington. Another argument about the Rolling Stones versus the Beatles ensued.

* * *

On November 20th, 2006, former KGB agent Alexander Litvinenko died of radiation poisoning, with significant amounts of the rare and highly toxic isotope polonium-210 being found in his body. The British government almost immediately accused Russia of having assassinated him to cover up a number of misdeeds.

On January 20th, 2007, Scotland Yard announced that they had "identified" the man they believed poisoned Alexander Litvinenko. They had captured Vladislav Sokolenko on camera at Heathrow Airport as he flew into London. It was Scotland Yard's opinion that he had been very sloppy in handling the polonium-210 used to assassinate Litvinenko, as they found traces of it at a number of places that Sokolenko visited in the same time period.

On January 26th, 2007, Scotland Yard revealed that they had discovered a "hot" teapot at the Millennium Hotel. The teapot had off-the-charts readings for polonium-210. A senior official said that investigators had concluded that the murder of Litvinenko was a "state-sponsored assassination orchestrated by Russian security services." They also announced that they wanted to charge Andrei Lugovoi with Litvinenko's murder. Russia refused to extradite Lugovoi.

Only twelve people knew the truth of the matter. And only one knew why traces of polonium-210 were found at the places Sokolenko had been.

* * *

_**Author's note:** Clearly, this is not what actually happened in November of 2006 in London. However, given how much I like to use actual historical events within this story, I thought it might be interesting to look at the Litvinenko assassination from a totally different point of view._

_Despite Scotland Yard's insistence that Andrei Lugovoi is responsible for the death of Alexander Litvinenko, Russia has refused to extradite him. In fact, in December of 2007, Lugovoi ran for a seat in the Russian Duma and was elected._

_It is likely that the full truth of the matter behind the death of Alexander Litvinenko will never be known. _


	18. These Irish Eyes

**May 2007**

The beta version of the Intersect was up and running. And Art Graham, director of the Central Intelligence Agency, thought that it was damn well about time.

Over two and a half years since the thing had been proposed. Graham wasn't a man who was used to waiting for results. When he wanted results, he got them right now, or heads rolled.

But that was the least of his concern right at the moment. What concerned him was Northern Ireland.

After thirty-five years of direct rule from the British Crown, a power-sharing agreement had been hammered out for the Irish to take control of Northern Ireland. Democratic Unionist Ian Paisley and Sinn Féin leader Martin McGuinness had been selected to be the leaders of this experiment.

However, some hard liners in Northern Ireland weren't happy with it. "Can't believe we have to share power with the bloody Prods," they'd say. "McGuinness? Fookin' traitor," they'd say.

And so, when the CIA got wind of an extreme right wing faction of the IRA that had decided it would be in their best interests to send McGuinness to meet his maker, Director Graham thought that it might be a good idea to stop them. The President fully agreed.

The two agents he had before him were his controversial "A" team, his first-string, the varsity – deep-cover operative Sarah Walker and field agent Bryce Larkin. They'd essentially been on probation for most of the last year, and with good reason.

What Graham couldn't understand was how Walker could so thoroughly make a mess of the Brazil mission, then get shot down by Hizbollah, and then, turn around and eliminate Alexander Litvinenko so skillfully that the world was convinced that Russia's FSB had done it. She was an enigma, but according to the psych evals he had seen from Walker's most recent evaluation, it seemed that she was also starting to lose it, if ever so slightly.

But that's what happened to deep-covers after a while, and Walker had been a deep-cover for over four years now. When one of the staff psychologists had suggested to Director Graham that perhaps it would be better to separate Walker from Bryce Larkin – both professionally and personally – he had replied that he was fairly certain that it was Larkin who was largely keeping Walker from coming apart at the seams.

So, when Graham had heard that Walker and Larkin were beginning to have problems in their personal lives, he grew somewhat concerned. Something had to be done, but before that something was done, he needed them to complete this mission.

"It seems that an extreme right-wing splinter group from the Irish Republican Army has decided that Martin McGuinness is a traitor to the glorious cause and must be eliminated," Graham said by way of introducing the mission. "Needless to say, should they be successful, Northern Ireland would almost certainly turn into a hellish maelstrom of terrorism, and that is not in the best interests of the United Kingdom, and therefore, of the United States.

"Now, the political climate in the U.K. right now is such that they cannot send in a team to eliminate this threat. However, we tend to keep our secrets somewhat better than they do. That's where the two of you come in."

He handed each of them a small LCD computer – God, he was going to miss the tradition of tossing manila folders on the desk. "This is the mission brief," he said. "Your targets are Rodney Carrington, Padraig McNeil, Seamus Sullivan, and James O'Halloran. Your mission is very simple – eliminate them quietly.

"All our intelligence on them – including what pubs they frequent, who their girlfriends are – or, in Sullivan's case, his boyfriend – even what size shoe they wear, should you get really creative with your elimination methods. Any questions?"

Neither agent had any, though Graham saw look of concern cross Walker's face. "Dismissed," he said.

"Um, I'll catch up to you in a minute, Bryce," Sarah said, letting him go. She stayed sitting in her chair as Larkin departed the office.

Sarah looked at Graham. "James O'Halloran. Relation – or coincidence?"

Graham nodded. "I knew that was going to come up. He's his younger brother."

Sarah leaned back and looked at the ceiling. "Director Graham, Mike O'Halloran has been like a family member for my entire life. How exactly am I supposed to go to Ireland and put a bullet in his younger brother's head?"

Director Graham looked at her curiously. "It's your job, Agent Walker. Are you starting to have second thoughts about your job?"

Sarah looked back at him. "Yes, sir. On every decision I've had to make since the disaster at Santa Anita Air Base."

Graham shook his head. "Walker, that was a year and a half ago. You have to let it go."

"How am I supposed to let it go?" she asked, her voice indicating a little bit of despair. "My decisions were responsible for the deaths of over 10,000 people!"

"You just DO, Walker," Graham replied. "You cannot hold onto things like that, because if you do, then you end up like John Casey, a burnout flying a desk."

Sarah looked back at him, her piercing blue eyes suddenly making him feel a little uncomfortable. "Where do I draw the line between being an agent and a human?"

"I don't have an answer for you, Agent Walker. That's something you have to figure out for yourself."

* * *

Four days later found Bryce and Sarah in Belfast, County Antrim, Ulster Province. They were being housed at the Hilton Belfast – "Again with the great digs," Bryce said, most pleased.

His exuberance lasted all of about thirty minutes, before Sarah insisted that they get down to the business of planning their mission. Bryce thought they should take out the four Irish Republicans one at a time. "Set them running scared," he said. "Make them make stupid mistakes, and run right into our hands."

"Won't work," Sarah replied. "If they're running scared, that makes one of them more likely to do something TRULY stupid like, I don't know, blowing himself up as McGuinness drives by."

"So you're suggesting we take them out all at once?!"

"Absolutely," Sarah said convincingly. "If they all go at once, there's nobody to tell any tales, nobody to warn anybody else."

"So what were you thinking? Car bomb?"

Sarah shrugged. "Maybe. Or a direct assault, catch them all playing cards or something. It's relatively simple to take them all out at once."

Bryce shook his head. "I just don't know," he said. "It just seems like it would be simpler and take a lot less planning to do them one at a time."

Sarah sighed. "Bryce," she replied, "this is what I do. The first time I assassinated somebody, you were all of three months out of Stanford."

Bryce's eyes widened. "I really didn't need to know that."

"Bryce, I'm just trying to convince you that I know what I'm talking about here."

Bryce shook his head. "I'm not sure that I believe you."

"Fine," Sarah shot back, starting to get a little irked. "The Belgrade Eight? That was me. The KGB network in Prague? Also me. Any number of dead people in countries around the world for the last couple of years, I had something to do with a good number of them."

Bryce looked shocked. "Un fucking believable," he muttered. "At least we all know you didn't do Alexander Litvinenko."

For all her training, Sarah had made the mistake of letting her guard down around Bryce, and so when he said that, her face went red and she refused to look at him.

"Wait, no," he said in disbelief. "There's no way! The FSB took him out! Tell me that the FSB took him out!"

Sarah didn't say anything.

"YOU KILLED ALEXANDER LITVINENKO?!" Bryce roared, jumping to his feet. "You told me you were SICK! You told me we were in London on VACATION! And yet, the whole purpose of us being over there was for you to kill a man who was for all intents and purposes an INNOCENT?!"

"Bryce…"

"Don't 'Bryce' me!" he spat. "What else have you lied about, Sarah? How many men have you slept with since we've been together?"

When she didn't answer right away, what little was left of his control went right out the window. "HOLY FUCKING SHIT," he shouted. "I have been one hundred percent faithful to you, and you've been out screwing around behind my back?!"

That was a bridge too far. Sarah's head whipped up, fury blazing in her eyes.

"It was my JOB, you fucking prick!" she hissed. "After two and a half years as a field agent, I thought you would have come to understand the meaning of 'anything at any time'! Clearly, however, you have NOT!"

That was the final straw for Bryce as well. "I very goddamn well understand the meaning of it! I just thought maybe you'd decided to figure out an alternative, but clearly I was blinded by the pretty looks of a WHORE!"

And that was when Bryce tried to hit Sarah. He brought his arm up, the back of his hand to her face, and was preparing his downswing, but anticipating his move, she grabbed his arm and twisted, flipping him over on to his back. He landed on the ground with a THUD, the wind knocked out of him.

Sarah stood over him, murder in her eyes. "Get the FUCK out," she whispered. "Don't you DARE come back until you GROW UP."

* * *

After she threw Bryce out, Sarah sat by herself in the dark hotel room for a very long time, not doing anything.

_What am I doing with my life?_ she asked herself. _Once upon a time, I was a brilliant student. Yeah, I was a bit of a slut. So?_

And it was thoughts such as this that had caused the CIA's psych eval team to start to believe that she was losing it a bit. The fact that she was having second thoughts about not just her mission, but about everything – her life, her job, even her boyfriend.

_Especially about that son of a bitch_, she thought bitterly. _Who the hell does he think he is?_

After about an hour, she turned on the television, looking for something to watch. Nothing. Nothing intelligent, nothing that would captivate her attention.

Finally, in frustration, she grabbed the LCD computer and started going through the intelligence on the four men. It turned out that on that particular night of the week, they liked to get drunk at a pub known as the Lowney Arms.

A floor plan of said pub was included with her intelligence. Sarah looked it over, determined that there were only two exits – the front door, and the back. Ordinarily, she'd storm the front door, and have Bryce cover the back.

No matter. She decided that if she was going to be taking out political dissidents, she was going to be dressed to kill.

Opening up her suitcase, she pulled out a dress she had planned to wear if she and Bryce went out – a simple blue dress, buttons down the front, and a built in belt at the waist. Slipping into it, she added a pair of black flats and a sapphire ring she had received – well, long before she had ever been Sarah Walker.

She completed the ensemble with a long grey trenchcoat. It might have seemed a little odd to an American observer, but it was a slightly chilly night, and besides, what better to hide weapons under?

And did she ever hide weapons. Her old Colt 1911 in one side, a Desert Eagle .44 in the other, and more knives than Emeril Lagasse would EVER have in his kitchen.

Leaving the hotel, she caught a cab to the Lowney Arms. It was a bit of a hole in the wall in a less-than-wonderful part of Belfast, and the cabbie actually asked her three times if she REALLY wanted to be here before she convinced him that yes, she did.

When she walked in the door, every eye in the place turned to look at her. She was unfamiliar, and unfamiliar was a threat. She became even more threatening when she pulled out her two handguns.

As her handguns appear, so too did guns in the hands of half the people in the pub, all aimed at her.

"Aye, and it's not me that ye be wantin'," Sarah said, her Irish accent not quite up to Father Mike's standards, but close enough. "It's those four scoundrels in the corner, they're plottin' to send Marty McGuinness to meet Jesus!"

She pointed at a booth in the back corner, and immediately, every gun in the room swung toward the four men sitting there. Yep, that was them. Rodney Carrington, Padraig McNeil, Seamus Sullivan, and James O'Halloran. O'Halloran looked so much like his brother that Sarah hesitated for a moment, irrationally thinking that it might have actually been Father Mike.

But then, the four bounded up, guns drawn, and began running for the back door. Sarah took off after them. Carrington and Sullivan were unlucky enough to be in the back, and with a gun in each hand, Sarah put a bullet through each of their hearts. They dropped to the ground, dead before they hit the floor.

McNeil and O'Halloran escaped out the back door, and Sarah followed in hot pursuit. Bursting through the door, she realized she was in a small parking lot, and the two men were nowhere to be seen.

They had been lying in wait. McNeil leapt out from behind a parked car, and O'Halloran jumped from around the corner of the building. Sarah was surprised, but it takes more than surprise to defeat a trained CIA deep cover operative.

As they tried to ambush her, Sarah aimed her Colt at McNeil, putting a bullet into his very surprised face as she reached out and smacked O'Halloran in the face with her Desert Eagle. As McNeil fell to the pavement, she heard O'Halloran stumble behind her.

She turned to face him, just as he stood and looked toward her. He lunged, and for just a moment, she hesitated, feeling a fleeting sense of guilt over what she was about to do to the younger brother of her priest, her recruiter, her mentor.

But that fleeting sense of guilt disappeared as she remembered what the man wanted to do to Northern Ireland. Her Desert Eagle came up, releasing a forty-four caliber slug directly into his heart.

He froze, a look of disbelief on his face. He actually remained conscious and on his feet for nearly a second, before falling to the pavement with a heavy thud.

Turning, Sarah saw what was clearly a closed-circuit camera on a light pole. Approaching it, she raised the Colt, and fired. The camera sparked and blew apart.

* * *

When Sarah returned to the hotel, she knew instantly that the room was not empty. She went in, gun drawn – but it was only Bryce.

He looked like a whipped puppy. As she lowered her gun, he swallowed hard. "There's no excuse for my behavior earlier," he said softly. "I let my anger take control of me, and you don't deserve that. You were only doing your job, and you've always been respectful toward me. I don't know why I let myself get that out of control."

Sarah sighed. "It happens, Bryce, because you don't have an outlet for your anger, your feelings of guilt, of hurt. You have to find that outlet, or you go mad. Trust me. Look what happened to John Casey."

Bryce nodded. "I understand, but it's worse than that. There is absolutely no reason I should've treated the woman I love like that."

Sarah looked down, and nodded. "You're right," she agreed. "But there's no taking it back."

Bryce stood, and placing a hand under Sarah's chin, lifted her face to look at his. "Please," he pleaded. "Just give me another chance."

Sarah slowly blew her breath out. "I never said I had given up on you, Bryce," she replied. "I'm not ready to give up on you. But our relationship has to change, somehow. It's something we need to talk about."

"We could talk about it right now," Bryce said.

Sarah shook her head. "Not right now. I just finished our mission."

Bryce raised his eyebrows. "Wow."

"Yeah," Sarah said. "Right now, I think the best thing for us to do would just be to get on the airplane and fly back to the US."

Bryce nodded. "Okay."

Even as Sarah let him embrace her, though, she couldn't ignore the nagging feeling in the back of her mind – the one telling her that their days were numbered.

* * *

_**Author's note:**__ For those of you who thought that the assassination of the last two Irish Republicans sounded familiar, it's because it's my take on Chuck's flash at the end of the pilot, when he sees Sarah take out two people on camera, and then shoot out the camera. This is referenced in Chapter 12 of "Chuck vs. the Bright Side of Life."_

_And as far as the Lowney Arms – well, Lowney's a good Irish name, and it happened to be my paternal grandmother's mother's maiden name. Yes, I'm a good Irish lad myself, with at least one member of the IRA dangling from my family tree like a hornets' nest._


	19. May God's Love Be With You

**September 1****st****, 2007**

_What am I doing here?_ she asked herself, and not for the first time. It was a question she had found herself asking repeatedly over the last few months, and now, asking herself again.

After Bryce's blowup in Belfast back in May, their relationship had grown strained. Some days it was good, some days it was bad.

Some days were June 14th, on which day Bryce managed to forget not only Sarah's birthday, but the fact that it was their second anniversary. Those facts combined made her very, VERY unhappy.

When Bryce was informed of his mistake, he was incredibly apologetic, but Sarah was growing tired of his apologies. He tried to make it up to her by taking her to dinner – something she had never been a real fan of – and by buying her a hugely expensive birthday present – a box set of the Beatles' entire catalog.

Too bad she was a Rolling Stones fan. And that was something that she knew for a FACT he knew.

And now, here they were, in Cabo san Lucas, where it had begun more than two years prior. Sarah knew that it was a last ditch effort to save their relationship, but unlike Bryce, who seemed determined to save it, she knew that it was done.

She just didn't have the heart to tell him.

Well, she didn't have the heart to tell him until he came up to her on the beach on Saturday afternoon with a drink. He handed it down to her.

"What is this, Bryce?"

"That would be a vodka martini. You know, the drink of international spies worldwide!"

Sarah rolled her eyes. "I seem to distinctly recall asking for a strawberry daiquiri."

"Well, they were out of strawberries."

"And so, instead, you got me a vodka martini," Sarah shot back, her ire beginning to rise. "And not only did you get me a vodka martini, but you got me one with olives in it."

"So?"

Sarah narrowed her eyes and stood, facing Bryce. Her hands on her hips, she said, "I HATE olives. You KNOW that."

He looked confused. "I really didn't."

Sarah was astonished. "How could you NOT know that?! I've told you on any number of occasions!"

"I'm sorry, Sarah, but how am I supposed to remember these things?"

Her brain just about exploded. "Well, how about you try remembering that I'm your GIRLFRIEND, Bryce, or maybe we should think about the fact that you're a FUCKING SPY!"

That last part was enough to attract the attention of several people right around them. "Shhh," Bryce said.

"Don't shush me!" Sarah snapped. "I'm willing to bet you don't remember that I hate muenster cheese, do you? Or, let's see, how about the fact that I think the Rolling Stones are ten times the band the Beatles ever were?!"

Bryce stood in shock as Sarah reamed him. "I can't believe this," he muttered. "I can't believe this is happening."

"Well, believe it," Sarah growled. "I can't believe you could forget such basic things!"

Bryce's face went emotionless, but she could hear the rage below his voice. "I can't believe I was going to ask you to marry me," he said softly.

That one threw Sarah for a loop. "You were going to what?!"

Bryce shrugged, his face growing an irritated expression. "Yeah, Sarah, I was going to ask you to marry me. I thought we worked well together. I guess I was wrong."

Sarah clapped a hand to her forehead. "Oh, Jesus Christ, Bryce. I mean… shit."

She started walking away. "Sarah!"

"Don't, Bryce, just don't!"

* * *

An hour later, he discovered that their rental car was gone. Sarah refused to pick up her phone. When Bryce called Langley and asked them to pinpoint her GPS, they told him that she was halfway to San Diego and moving quickly.

Now Bryce was pissed. He had to rearrange his airline tickets to fly out of Cabo instead of San Diego, and that cost him an arm and a leg.

When he landed in Washington, he drove to his and Sarah's apartment. Walking inside, he looked around. "Fuck this," he muttered.

Four hours after that, most of his possessions were in a storage unit. He had just what he needed in a hotel room twenty minutes from CIA headquarters.

After depositing his necessities in his hotel room, he drove over to Langley. As he stormed into the building, he ran into Director Graham, who was somewhat surprised to see him.

"Larkin?" Graham said. "I thought you were on vacation!"

"Cut it short," Bryce replied.

"Alright then."

Graham got a thoughtful look on his face. "Come up to my office when you have a chance, would you, Larkin?"

Twenty minutes later, Bryce knocked on Graham's office door. "Come in!" he heard from within.

"Have a seat," Graham said when Bryce entered.

Bryce seated himself across from Graham. "So, what can I do for you, sir?"

Graham looked at him for a moment, then switched on the white noise generator. "The Intersect has been compromised," he said without preamble. "There's a group of agents within the CIA that thinks it needs to be destroyed. They're calling themselves Fulcrum. The problem is, even though we've pinpointed which agents are involved, some of them are in such sensitive positions that we can't take them down without taking the whole agency down."

Bryce's eyes widened. "Jesus H. Christ."

"Exactly," Graham agreed, nodding. He took a deep breath.

"What I want to do is destroy it before they do," the CIA director informed Bryce.

Bryce was shocked. "What?!"

"Hear me out," Graham replied. "I want to send a single agent to infiltrate the complex, download the Intersect database into a portable computer, and then destroy the computer itself. We'll have to do a little rebuilding, but it'll be worth it to keep it out of the hands of these Fulcrum people."

Bryce shook his head. "Why are you telling me all of this, sir?"

Graham looked directly at him. "Because I want you to be that agent."

This time, Bryce was shocked speechless.

"It means that Bryce Larkin has to die to the world," Graham said. "It means that the world is going to believe that Bryce Larkin has gone off the reservation, and it means that the world is going to believe that Bryce Larkin's attack on the Intersect was a suicide mission. And the world that believes all that has to include Sarah Walker."

Bryce closed his eyes and blew out his breath slowly. "That… won't be a problem, sir. My world no longer includes Sarah Walker, as far as I'm concerned."

Graham was a little surprised, but didn't show it. "Very well, then," he replied. "When you walk out the door this afternoon, Bryce Larkin ceases to be. You have until the end of the month to execute the mission. Once you've downloaded the Intersect, contact me. I'll meet you to retrieve it."

* * *

Sarah had decided to drive back to Washington. She took her sweet time about it, too, taking three weeks to drive cross-country in the rental car, for which she was certain she would be paying a great deal for.

As she was driving into Washington, a Rolling Stones song came up on her iPod. "I've been hanging out so long, I've been sleeping all alone, Lord I miss you," Mick Jagger sang.

"Yeah, right," Sarah muttered bitterly. "I miss you about as much as a bad cold."

It was when the song reached its last verse that Sarah smiled grimly, rolled down the windows, and began singing along with the Stones.

"I guess I'm lying to myself, it's just you and no one else, Lord I won't miss you!" she belted as she drove through the streets of Washington. "You've been blotting out my mind, fooling on my time, no I won't miss you, baby!"

The song came to an end as she rolled to a stop in front of the apartment building. Grabbing her bags, she headed upstairs – and came to a stop when she walked in the door.

All of Bryce's stuff was gone. It was pretty clear that he hadn't been there for several days.

"Well, fuck you too, you bastard," she whispered.

The light on the answering machine was blinking madly. Ninety-seven messages, it informed her. They were all from Director Graham, requesting that she call in, and berating her for not having her cell phone on.

Rather than calling in, she decided simply to go in to Langley. When she arrived, though, she started getting looks – looks she had gotten before.

They were the looks she'd gotten after Piers de Klerk had died.

She found herself walking toward Director Graham's office with more urgency, bursting through his door when she reached it.

He was on the phone, and looked up when she came in. "I'll call you back, General Beckman," he said, and hung up the phone.

"What the hell is going on?" she asked. "Why am I getting looks from people like somebody died?"

Graham pointed to the chair in front of his desk. "I don't want to sit," she said. "I just want an answer."

"Fine," Graham replied. "Agent Walker, it is my duty to inform you that your partner, Bryce Larkin, has gone rogue."

Her eyes widened, and she sat. "What?"

"He's gone off the reservation, Sarah. We don't know where he is, what he's doing. We just know that he sent us a communication informing us of his intention to wreak havoc. We don't know how."

"There has to be some mistake," Sarah insisted. "I can get in touch with him. I can find out what's going on."

Graham simply shook his head. "We can't risk you like that," he said. "But it's worse – the NSA has put out a sanction on him."

Sarah's eyes widened in shock and horror. A sanction from the NSA was essentially a "kill on sight" order.

"They wanted to put one on you, too, when we couldn't get in contact with you for several days," Graham continued. "Fortunately, I was able to convince them that there is no way you'd turn."

Sarah felt like she'd been punched in the stomach.

"That's all I can tell you," Graham finished. "You're dismissed."

* * *

Sarah returned to her apartment. Nothing to do. Nothing left there to remind her of Bryce. Even the framed picture of the two of them in Cabo from two years earlier was nothing but an imprint in the dust. She couldn't decide if that was a blessing or a curse.

She couldn't conceive how Bryce could have so thoroughly betrayed his country – betrayed HER. It was enough to make her sick.

Her eyes were beginning to tear up as she stood. She needed a distraction, something to take her mind off of things. She slipped her iPod into its boombox and hit shuffle.

The song that came up was definitely the wrong song to take her mind off of things – Joseph Arthur's "In the Sun". But for some reason, she couldn't bring herself to change it.

_I picture you in the sun, wondering what went wrong, and falling down on your knees, asking for sympathy…_

* * *

Bryce paced his hotel room. It was September 24th. He was infiltrating the Intersect complex that night.

As he looked around the place that had become his refuge, his eyes fell on a silver frame, lying on its front in a box. He picked it up.

Him and Sarah, in Cabo. Two years before.

His eyes teared up as he looked at the picture. "What went wrong?" he whispered.

_And being caught in between all you wish for and all you've seen, and trying to find anything you can feel, that you can believe in._

* * *

Sarah left the apartment to go for a run. As she ran down the streets, though, she saw things everywhere that reminded her of Bryce.

More than once, she realized that she had a tail. The NSA, trying to find a reason to put out a sanction on her as well. But she didn't care.

As she began to cry, she angrily made herself run harder, causing the tears to streak out of her eyes. The saltiness stung her cheeks as the tears fell.

_May God's love be with you, always. May God's love be with you._

* * *

Bryce didn't go anywhere that day. He ordered in lunch, spent the afternoon watching television.

_Perhaps the last day I will ever do anything normal_, he thought to himself.

He started thinking about everything with Sarah, realizing what she must think of him.

He laughed bitterly, realizing that once again, somebody thought they were being betrayed by Bryce Larkin, when the opposite couldn't be more true. Sarah Walker, thought he'd gone rogue. Jill Tanner, left behind because the CIA was simply too dangerous. Chuck Bartowski, kicked out of Stanford because Bryce didn't want to see him corrupted by the CIA.

"Will there ever be anybody I DON'T have to betray?" he asked of nobody in particular.

_I know I would apologize if I could see your eyes, 'cause when you showed me myself, I became someone else._

* * *

When Sarah returned from her run, she stripped down and showered. She stood under the hot water until it grew cold, trying to cleanse herself of the betrayal she had experienced.

When she got out of the shower, she wrapped a towel around herself and walked into the bedroom. She opened a dresser drawer – and there was one of Bryce's old t-shirts, one she'd commandeered long before.

She lifted the shirt to her face, faintly smelling the scent of his cologne, his soap, his deodorant. The scent caused her to crack, and she collapsed onto the bed, sobbing uncontrollably.

_But I was caught in between all you wish for and all you need. I picture you fast asleep – a nightmare comes, and you can't keep awake._

* * *

Bryce drove down the darkened highway toward Greenbelt, Maryland – the NASA complex, where the Intersect was kept.

It looked like he was going to a black tie event – decked out in a tuxedo. But the tux was just a cover for a far more sinister purpose – he had had it custom designed to essentially hold a small armory.

If somebody had looked under Bryce Larkin's jacket, they would've thought he was invading a small country single-handedly.

_May God's love be with you, always. May God's love be with you._

* * *

As Sarah lay on the bed, she fell into a restless sleep. Unable to leave the sense of betrayal in her conscious mind, it followed her into her dreams.

As she dreamed, she saw one after another the people she had killed. She saw the four men in Belfast. She saw Alexander Litvinenko.

She saw the face of the Hizbollah commander whose van she had blown up. Santa Anita Air Base in Brazil, burning from the explosion of twelve Exocet missiles.

She saw Piers de Klerk, standing before her, ghostly. He didn't say anything out loud, his mouth silently forming but one word: _Why?_

She saw the eight men in Belgrade. And then, she saw the one face that hurt most of all –

Her mother.

"NOOOO!" Sarah screamed, sitting bolt upright in bed.

'_Cause if I find, if I find my own way, how much will I find, if I find, if I find my own way, how much will I find you?_

* * *

Bryce had ditched the car about half a mile before the Greenbelt complex. Jogging the last few hundred feet, he sped up in preparation to vault the fence before him.

It was topped with razor wire, but no matter – very skillfully, he avoided the razor wire, landing silently on the inside of the fence. He moved like a ghost toward the Intersect building.

He was well inside the building when the first alarm went off. "Crap," he muttered, as the first NSA agents appeared.

He dispatched them with ease, but the next set was a little rougher. By the time he reached the room where the computer was housed, he was bloodied and breathing heavily.

Locking the door from the inside, he set an explosive charge. Then, donning a pair of sunglasses, he squatted in front of the Intersect computer, setting his computer to download.

It didn't take very long. As soon as it was done, he stood up, and set the explosive to go off. He started running, and reached the door just as it blew, being propelled into the hallway, four agents being taken down by the flying door.

_I don't know anymore what it's for, I'm not even sure if there is anyone who is in the sun, who can help me to understand…_

* * *

Sarah sat on her bed, her knees curled up to her chin. She had a feeling that something absolutely awful was about to happen.

She just didn't know what, though. So many absolutely awful things had happened in her life, what difference would one more make?

"I can't do this anymore," she whispered to herself. "No more lies, no more death. No more."

'_Cause I've been caught in between all I wish for and all I need – maybe you're not even sure what it's for, any more than me._

* * *

Bryce knew he was trapped. The NSA had effectively sealed off the entire complex.

He almost laughed at the irony of the situation. Here he was, trying to keep the data out of the hands of what was essentially a domestic terrorist organization, and the NSA was trying to take him down.

His only option to get the data out so that the CIA could recover it, was to get it off his computer – to send it to somebody.

He began to type frantically as he ran, pulling up an e-mail address from the address book. "Chuck Bartowski will know what to do with this," he muttered, having no idea why he thought that, but having an overwhelming sense of confidence that his old roommate would know EXACTLY what to do with it.

The only thing left to do was to type a code phrase. He didn't have time to think about that, though, as he crashed through an emergency door out onto an overhang. He jumped off the overhang, thinking as he landed.

_ZORK!_ he realized excitedly. _Of course!_

He quickly typed, entering the message, "The terrible troll raises his sword." Bryce was ready to press send when he heard the shot – and then he was thrown backwards as the bullet slammed into his torso.

"Don't move," he heard a distant voice say. As his vision grew blurry, he saw a familiar shape come into his vision.

John Casey.

Bryce tried to laugh, but didn't have the breath. "It's too late, Casey," he whispered, pressing "Send."

_May God's love be with you, always. May God's love be with you, always._


	20. Sarah vs the Intersect

_**Author's Note:**__ Yes indeed, this chapter is the behemoth to top all behemoths. A large part of that is because, as you will notice, it cribs heavily from the Pilot episode, essentially retelling a large portion of it from Sarah's point of view._

_However, I thought that it was important to fully flesh out the end of this long, long story, especially to give Sarah's thoughts and feelings throughout the Pilot._

_I hope you've all enjoyed _The Seduction of Sarah Walker: A Tale of the CIA_. This will be the last chapter, and there will be a brief epilogue to follow._

* * *

As Sarah lay in her bed, all alone, she found herself suddenly growing cold. It wasn't the temperature in the apartment – it just came out of nowhere, this cold.

She huddled under the blankets, trying to fall asleep, but after half an hour with no success, she gave up. Wiping the seemingly never-ending tears from her eyes, she rolled out of the bed and stood.

Sarah left the bedroom, going out to her desk and turning on the desk lamp. Opening a drawer, she withdrew a sheet of letterhead from a rarely-used stationery set. Reaching to the coffee mug at the back of the desk, she grabbed a pen.

_To whom it may concern_, she wrote.

_Due to emotional and mental stresses that have been placed upon me over the last year and a half, I have come to the realization that I am no longer able to fully discharge the duties of a deep-cover operative of the Central Intelligence Agency._

_Therefore, effective immediately, I resign my post with the Central Intelligence Agency._

_September 24__th__, 2007_

_Elizabeth Lisa Reynolds_

It was strange to sign that name to a piece of paper. She hadn't done that in over five years. But if she was leaving the agency, then Sarah Walker would have to cease to be.

She folded the letter into thirds and sealed it with a gold seal embossed with the initials "SW". Sarah shook her head at the lunacy of the whole thing.

Going downstairs, she got into her car and started driving. She felt like she was in a haze the entire way, and found herself in the Langley parking garage before she even realized she had driven that way.

More cars than usual were in the garage for this time of night – including, she saw, Director Graham's. With a backward glance at the unusual number of cars, she headed into the building.

When she stepped out of the elevator onto the administrative floor, she found that at least half the directorial staff was still there. As soon as she stepped out, though, they all looked at her – with a completely different set of looks than those she had received sixteen hours before.

This time, their looks were looks of suspicion, even of hostility. Trying to ignore their looks, but feeling their eyes burning into her back, she quickly crossed the administrative floor. Knocking on Director Graham's door twice, she opened the door and stepped in.

The office was dark, but Graham was there, standing at the window, looking out. "Do you know what hell is, Walker?" he asked by way of greeting.

"I don't believe in the afterlife, sir," she replied simply.

He turned and sighed heavily. Drawing up the lights slightly, he said, "I'm not referring to the afterlife, Walker. I'm referring to right here, right now. Hell is where I have found myself."

Graham sat in the chair behind his desk, indicating that Sarah should sit across from him. "Two hours ago, Bryce Larkin infiltrated the Intersect building at the NASA complex in Greenbelt. He downloaded the entire database, and then destroyed the computer.

"He attempted to escape, but he was intercepted and shot by the National Security Agency. He… died."

Sarah's heart felt like it had frozen. Her mind told her to cry, but her body responded that it had had quite enough crying over the last three weeks, and refused to cooperate. She ended up just sitting there, a look of shock and horror painted on her face.

Graham saw the look, but pressed on. "Before he died, he sent the entire database to the e-mail address of an individual named Charles Irving Bartowski. He is apparently a civilian, but also apparently somewhat of a computer guru, and has managed to put ciphers on his e-mail that we can't break without support from the NSA. Needless to say, they aren't really big on helping us right now, so we're sort of stuck."

Sarah couldn't think of anything to say, and what ended up coming out of her mouth was certainly no help. "I'm sorry to hear that, sir."

Steeling herself, and trying not to think about Bryce, she reached in her purse, withdrew the letter, and handed it to Director Graham. "This had better not be what I think it is, Walker," he said softly as he took it from her.

He slid a finger under the seal, popping it open, then unfolded the letter. He read over it quickly, and promptly ripped it in half.

"I can't accept this right now," he said by way of replying to the look of shock on Sarah's face. "First of all, this agency needs you. Secondly, if you quit now, don't you think the NSA might find that a bit suspicious and come after you, too?"

She put a hand to her forehead as that message sank in. "I didn't even consider that," she whispered. "I just wanted to be done with it all."

Graham nodded. "Understandable, under the circumstances. However, there's one last mission I need you to undertake, and then you can go spend the rest of your life sipping mai-tais on a beach in St. Kitts, for all I care."

Sarah looked up at him. "And what would that be, sir?"

Graham reached into his desk, pulling out a manila mission folder – computers were not being used for ANYTHING at that moment, for obvious reasons. "Charles Irving Bartowski," he said, throwing the folder on the desk.

"You are to make contact with Mr. Bartowski. See if you can determine the location of the Intersect data. If it's on a hard drive somewhere, retrieve the hard drive. If he's a hostile, you will terminate him; in the unlikely event that he's an unwitting victim of Bryce Larkin – well, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it."

He sighed, looking at her over his crossed fingers. "This is a very sticky situation, because right now, under the urging of the NSA, the President has personally issued an order that you not take part in any overseas operations, and they've also convinced the Secretary of State to suspend your passport. However, since this is strictly a domestic operation, there shouldn't be any problems.

"Nonetheless, keep your nose clean. I guarantee you it won't be long until the NSA comes to the same conclusions we have, so do try not to piss them off should you come into contact with them.

"When you complete the mission, if you don't feel like coming back here, fine. Stay in Los Angeles. It might be for the best."

She closed her eyes and nodded. "Thank you, sir."

Director Graham gazed at her. "Go home, Agent Walker. Collect only what you need for this mission. If you need more, use your Agency card to buy it in Los Angeles. The Agency will arrange for your remaining belongings to be placed in storage, and we'll arrange the termination of your lease. If, of course, that's what you want."

She simply nodded again.

"Very well then. Your flight leaves Langley Air Force Base at 6:00 AM."

With nothing further to say, she turned and left Graham's office, gently closing the door behind her.

The one thing that she wasn't around to hear, which might've made a difference down the road, was as she was driving out of the CIA parking garage.

Graham's office phone rang, and he snatched it up quickly. "Graham."

He listened for a moment, and then: "What the hell do you mean Larkin's body is MISSING?!"

* * *

Sarah went back to the apartment. Exhaustion finally caught up with her, and she fell into bed, setting her alarm clock for 4:00 AM – all of three hours' sleep.

The alarm came too soon, and she dragged herself from bed. She showered and did her best to wake herself up fully. She packed a small overnight bag, taking just one gun – her old Colt 1911. The others stayed behind.

As she was walking out the door, she considered taking her iPod – but just as she touched it, her hand recoiled. Too many songs on that iPod that were reminders of Bryce. It was best to leave it in Washington, with the rest of her past.

She arrived at Langley AFB at 5:30 AM, to be greeted by the sight of a plane she'd flown on more than once – the black Dassault Falcon 7X, the same one that she had first flown on for that disastrous mission in Brazil just two years before. Finally FAA certified, it could fly her on in-country trips.

The plane went wheels-up at 6:03 AM, just as the eastern horizon was beginning to lighten the slightest bit. Sarah promptly fell asleep, waking just once, somewhere over the Midwest, to use the lavatory.

She awoke again when the plane landed at Bob Hope International Airport in Burbank. It taxied to a remote part of the airport – no small feat, as it appeared to be a fairly small airport. The Falcon rolled to a stop next to a Porsche 911 that was the same jet black as the airplane.

As the engines wound down, Sarah climbed down the Airstair. "Agent Walker?" asked a young man, dressed in black, standing next to the Porsche.

She nodded. He didn't say anything else, just handed her the keys. She got into the Porsche, and her first order of business was to try to turn on her cell phone. No such luck. "The hell?" she muttered, reaching into her overnight bag and retrieving the car charger. She plugged the phone in. Still nothing.

"Goddammit," she said under her breath. At least it gave her a good excuse to go to… where did Bartowski work again? She pulled out his file. Right, the tech support group at Buy More. Time for a little reconnaissance, and first stop, his residence. Looking into the file again, she punched his home address into the 911's navigation system.

It told her to take a right turn out onto Hollywood Way, to follow that down to Olive Avenue, which would become Barham Boulevard. From there, she got onto the 101 freeway – to immediately encounter congestion worse than the worst afternoon on the Beltway.

"Los Angeles, this is not a very good first impression," she muttered to no one in particular. After what seemed like an eternity – but was really only about fifteen minutes – she reached the exit for Temple Street. A couple blocks down Temple, she turned onto Glendale Boulevard, and then up to the famous Sunset Boulevard.

She turned off of Sunset onto a street called Laveta Terrace. She followed the street up about a block, slowly driving past the address listed as Bartowski's residence. As she watched, a brunette woman who looked to be a little older than Sarah came out of the complex and drove off in a Pontiac G6. She matched the description of Bartowski's older sister, Eleanor.

With that bit of intelligence confirmed, Sarah punched in Bartowski's work address. When it told her to take the I-5 freeway for seven and a half miles, she groaned and said, "I don't think so."

She stopped off at a 7-Eleven to see if a local might give her a little better insight. Sure enough, ten minutes later, she was on San Fernando Road, heading north, back into the San Fernando Valley. San Fernando Road took her through downtown Burbank, which she had to admit was charming, if a little over-commercialized.

San Fernando Road ended at Magnolia Boulevard, which took her over to Victory Boulevard ("Is everything a boulevard here?" she asked herself). A mile up Victory, and she found what might have been the largest urban shopping center she had ever seen – and in fact, there was the Buy More electronics store that Bartowski was supposed to work at.

She pulled into the parking lot, looking around herself in amazement. Next to the Buy More was a large discount retail store called, appropriately enough, Large Mart. There was a Sports Authority, a Barnes & Noble, a whole array of restaurants, and a little place with the vaguely sexual name of "Wienerlicious."

Sarah got out of the Porsche, locked it, and headed toward the Buy More. As the doors opened, she was greeted by the cool blast of air that came out the doors and into the rather warm September afternoon. Looking around, she saw the Nerd Herd desk that Bartowski was assigned to, right in the center of the store.

He was easy to identify – the tall one, with curly brown hair, clearly in command of his situation. Charles "Chuck" Bartowski was taller than Sarah expected – although, that might have just been an illusion due to the small, gnome-lie individual who was standing next to him. Morgan Grimes Bartowski's best friend, according to the file.

Grimes thought he was being quiet, but Sarah could hear every word he said as she approached. "Stop the presses!" he hissed to Bartowski. "Who is that?!"

He turned to Bartowski. "Vicki Vale!" he stage whispered.

_Was I REALLY just compared to Kim Basinger?_ flashed through Sarah's mind. As the thought ran through her head, Bartowski started doing a freestyle… something… to the phone he was clearly on hold on.

"Vicki Vale, vick-va-Vicki Vale… vickity, vickity…"

He glanced up briefly, seeing Sarah but not really registering her presence. She waited, amused, as the fact that she was standing in front of him kicked in.

And when it did, he literally dropped everything he was holding. The binder in his hands, the phone between his shoulder and his ear went crashing to the floor.

Unable to suppress a small smile, she said, "I hope I'm not… interrupting."

Bartowski, clearly flustered, choked out, "No… not at… all… that's from… uh, it's from Batman."

_I know that_, Sarah thought, as the expression on her face changed to one of tolerant amusement. "Because… that makes it better," she replied, trying to not be TOO sarcastic.

Bartowski laughed nervously, and then the gnome leaned over toward Sarah. "Uh, hi, hey, I'm Morgan," he introduced himself.

_Oh, I know you better than you know yourself_, Sarah said to herself, as Morgan continued, "And this is Chuck."

Before she could stop her mouth from moving, Sarah realized that she was saying, "Wow, I didn't realize people still named their kids Chuck, or, uh, Morgan, for that matter!"

Realizing what she had said a moment too late, Sarah mentally kicked herself and started preparing an apology, but Bartowski seemed to take it in stride. "Oh, my parents were sadists," he replied, "and carnival freaks found him in a dumpster."

"And they raised me as one of their own," Grimes continued, his eyes widening and taking on a bit of a crazy look.

"How can I help you, uh…" Bartowski said, fishing for her name.

"Sarah," she said.

"Sarah," he repeated.

"I'm here about this," she said, lying her phone, battery out and battery cover off, on the counter in front of him.

"Oh, yeah, the Intellicell. Yeah," he said, picking the phone up. "Yeah, this model has, uh, a little screw…"

He started explaining what was wrong with the phone, but Sarah wasn't really listening. As she watched and listened to Bartowski, she just seemed to find him extremely likable. Maybe it was the way he tolerated Grimes, maybe it was just his persona, but she couldn't bring herself to accept that he could possibly be some sort of enemy agent, working with Bryce Larkin.

_STOP THINKING LIKE THAT!_ she mentally commanded herself. _You let your guard down, you could end up DEAD!_

And then Bartowski was handing her phone back to her, and it was on again. "Good as new, no problem," he said, finishing up his technical spiel.

"Wow!" Sarah said, with a note of actual sincerity in her voice. "You geeks are good!"

A pained expression crossed Bartowski's face. "Nerds!" Grimes interjected, just as Bartowski said, "I would say nerds is probably more…"

Grimes jumped back in. "It's no big deal…"

"You know, uh, yeah, you know, Nerd Herd –"

Bartowski was cut off by a rather desperate looking man in a plaid shirt – _Who the hell wears those?_ Sarah thought nastily – accompanied by a girl in a ballerina outfit. The man started babbling about how he didn't understand why his digital video camera hadn't recorded his daughter's recital, and when Chuck – _BARTOWSKI!_ she commanded herself – opened the camera and patiently explained to the man that he needed digital video tape, it was all she could do to not reach out and smack the man in the back of the head for his stupidity.

The man started to panic. "Oh, no," he muttered. "Her mom's gonna… kill me."

Bartowski raised his eyebrows, looking back over at Sarah. He made eye contact with her, and she did her best to smile at him supportively.

Bartowski didn't react to the man's panic, though. He just looked over at Grimes and said, "Morgan, I need the wall."

And that split second decision turned into a taping of the girl doing her entire routine in front of a wall of at least twenty large-screen televisions, all showing her. Bartowski looked back over at Sarah once during the whole thing, and despite the puppy-dog smile on his face, despite the deep brown eyes that she could lose herself in –

"Goddamn it, get a hold of yourself, Walker," she muttered under her breath, smiling back at Bartowski. Despite those undeniably attractive traits, she realized that lying beneath that outward nerd persona was a very credible threat, especially if he had the Intersect data.

As a small Asian man in a green Buy More polo shirt came rushing up to berate Bartowski for wasting Buy More's time and money and for acting like a stock boy, Sarah placed a card on the counter. It said nothing more than her name and phone number, but it would be enough for Bartowski to contact her.

* * *

What Sarah did not count on was Bartowski not having a life. So, four hours later, when she broke into his apartment, dressed in black from literally head to toe, including a balaclava mask, she expected to be alone for awhile.

She walked directly to his bedroom, and groaned when she saw his computer – an enormous Mac G4. "Jesus, you couldn't shell out the extra hundred bucks for a MacBook?" she asked in despair. With a heavy sigh, she crossed to the computer and began disconnecting everything from it.

Sarah was on her way out of the apartment, computer in hands, when the front door opened, and the lights came on – and in walked Bartowski and Grimes, having a conversation about… a porn star? What the hell?

They just stared at her, and Bartowski said, very quietly, "Please, not the computer."

She set the computer down, and sighing inwardly, took on a defensive stance. Grimes picked up a plate and threw it at her, Frisbee style. Sarah punched it, deflecting it back into Bartowski's gut. As he groaned and clasped his chest, Grimes threw a candle at her.

Again, she punched it, and sent it flying back into Bartowski's groin. The look on his face was one of pure agony, and as he bent over in pain, she found herself feeling rather sorry for him.

But she had a mission. And Grimes was making it easier, as he accidentally broke a vase over Bartowski's head. "Come on, Chuck, do something!" Grimes yelled.

As if he could. He was already pretty much disabled, and Sarah could take him down in the time it would take Bartowski to take exactly one step toward her.

Rolling her eyes, Sarah bent down and picked up the computer. That was all it took for Bartowski to recover. Stepping toward her determinedly, he said, "Gimme the computer!"

So she did. She tossed it up in the air, and as he caught it, she hit the ground, and swept his legs out from under him. He lost his grip on the computer, and as it flew up in the air, she grabbed it, delivering a solid kick to his chest. He flew into the wall.

_Sorry_, she thought, cringing as the apartment shook.

Sarah turned and set the computer back down, resuming her defensive stance as Grimes shouted, "That's my friend!" and foolishly attacked Sarah with a golf club.

She grabbed the golf club out of his hands, and whipped it around, scaring the living daylights out of him. "Okay, look, he's not that good of a friend."

_Yeah, and some friend you are_, Sarah thought as she delivered a kick that sent Grimes to land on top of Bartowski.

As he landed, though, there was a crash behind her. She turned just in time to watch in despair as the shelf the computer was on went crashing to the ground, and the computer disintegrated before her very eyes. A lower shelf crashed on top of it, scoring a direct hit on the hard drive.

_Well, shit_.

This particular portion of the mission a failure, she ran outside as fast as she could. She practically dove into the 911 and sped away, leaving rubber marks on the pavement.

"Dammit!" Sarah hissed as she pulled the balaclava off her head.

She opened up her newly-restored-to-life phone and called Director Graham. "Graham, secure," he said on answering the phone.

"This is Walker," she replied. "I've made contact with Bartowski, and I almost got away with his computer, but he and his weaselly little friend put up a fight that ended with his computer being trashed."

Graham sighed at the other end. "But he may have transferred the data to some other media."

"I have no idea, sir."

"Find out, Walker. Whatever means necessary."

* * *

As Sarah headed to the Buy More once again the next day, she knew she was going to have to turn the flirt up a notch. Not that that would be a particular hardship – Bartowski was kind of cute, and he seemed to be the anti-Bryce, which was really what she knew she needed just at that moment, not that she'd ever actually admit it to herself.

"I have eyes on him right now," she told Director Graham, watching him come out of the Large Mart and head into the Buy More. He looked… uneasy, even frightened for some reason. "But like I said, the computer was destroyed."

"Okay," Graham said with a sigh. "It's done. I want you in the air in an hour."

_We discussed this last night, though!_ she thought. "But… what if he has an external drive? A backup –"

"It's over, Sarah," Graham replied. "The NSA is stepping in."

He paused. "Bryce was CIA, he was our guy, and he burned us. Casey's on his way out. You're being recalled."

Sarah couldn't believe what he was hearing. Casey?! After his stunt in Brazil? After his episode in Atlanta?! "Because of Casey?" she asked, the disbelief evident in her voice. "He's a burnout!"

"He's a killer, Sarah," Graham said, his distaste for everything to do with Major John Casey evident in his voice. "A cold soul."

In an office two thousand miles away from Sarah Walker, Art Graham sighed, having to once again go down the road of deceiving one of his best agents with regard to Bryce Larkin. "I want you to listen. Whatever happened with Bryce, you couldn't have known. You couldn't have stopped it."

"But I can fix it!" Sarah objected. "If there's a backup, I'll find it! Just give me… twelve hours."

And with that, she hung up the phone. Opening the door of the Porsche, she braced herself against the warmth of Burbank as she headed into the store.

As she walked up to the Nerd Herd desk, she saw Bartowski, his head down. "I'm losing my mind," she heard him mutter as she approached.

She gently pressed the bell. "Morgan, not now," Bartowski grumbled, reaching out to swat what he thought was Grimes' hand away from the bell –

And as his hand grabbed hers, it sent an almost electric shock right to the pit of her stomach. Fortunately, she had a moment to compose herself, as he very slowly came to the realization of who it was standing before him.

"Hi!" he said, flustered, shooting up. "Hi, uh, phone trouble again?"

Sarah sighed inwardly, turning the flirt level up to maximum. "Uh, yeah, I'm not sure I'm able to receive calls, 'cause I never got one from you."

Bartowski looked like he was about to pass out. Sarah could see Grimes behind him, a look of sheer disbelief on his face. A startled laugh snuck out of Grimes' mouth, causing Bartowski to look over his shoulder in disgust.

"I'm sorry I left so quickly yesterday," Sarah continued when Chuck looked back at her. "I had an appointment with a realtor – I just moved here."

"Welcome!" said Chuck, still flustered.

And suddenly, Sarah found herself off script. She realized that she had gone from thinking of him as "Bartowski" to thinking of him as "Chuck" and had landed somewhere far outside of where she had been intending this conversation to go.

Fortunately, improvisation was one of her strong suits – it had to be, as a deep-cover operative. Well, a disgraced and Presidentially bitch-slapped deep-cover operative.

She decided to add "charm" to "flirt."

"And, uh, I don't really know anybody here… I was wondering if you could show me around… that is, if you're free."

Chuck looked absolutely shell-shocked, speechless. Grimes had snuck back up behind him, and answered for him. "Oh, he's free! He's got nothing but time on his hands. He is VERY available. You guys are gonna have a great time!"

Chuck's expression had gone from shell-shocked to unspeakably happy to utterly disgusted, as he shot a look of death at Grimes. Babbling something about Xerox machines, Grimes quickly disappeared.

"Apparently, my schedule's wide open," Chuck said, becoming calm again as he turned back to Sarah.

In a situation like this, she normally would've said something witty and disarming, and yet, all that came out was, "Great," and an embarrassed laugh.

_GREAT?!_ she berated herself as she exited the store. _What the hell is this, junior high?!_

* * *

When Sarah stepped out of the shower, she had a sudden realization.

"Holy shit!" she said out loud. "That's where I've seen him before! Chuck Bartowski was the guy in the bar in Monterey! The guy with that Jill girl!"

She remembered what she had thought, all those years before – that she could've had a normal life, that that could've been her with him. And remembering the context in which she'd been in that bar –

Sarah suddenly found herself hoping, totally irrationally, that she wouldn't have to seduce Chuck, not for her own sake, but for his. He just seemed like too much of an innocent.

But the little voice inside her head said, "You think like that, you could get dead, Walker."

And so, in addition to reluctantly putting on the black lingerie, she strapped a set of knives to her ankle, and got out the hairpins. The same hairpins she'd used years before, to kill Milan Popović. She even dipped them in Ricin, just in case.

The last touch was a Kevlar vest. Not that she was afraid of being attacked by any enemy forces, but rather because she was quite certain that the NSA was still looking for an excuse to shoot her.

Finally, she called Director Graham to report in. "He's picking me up for a date," she told him.

What he said in reply shocked her. "You're on your own on this one, Sarah. I can't help you if something goes wrong."

_WHAT?! Now I'M off the reservation, too?!_ "I don't know about this guy, Graham," she said, a note of despair in her voice.

"Nice guys can have secrets."

And with that, the knocker on her door clicked – once, twice, three times. She stole a quick glance at the video monitor – yep, it was Chuck.

She cocked her Colt, slid it into her waistband under her dress. "What should I do if she runs?"

The answer from Graham was chilling, and yet, so indicative of the way things had gone the last few days.

"Kill him."

Dinner found them in some Mexican restaurant in East L.A., where a crummy mariachi band sang the song that Sarah had grown up knowing as the "Frito Bandito" song. Staying alert, she nonetheless tried to just let this be as normal a date as possible.

"I live with my sister and her boyfriend, _Captain Awesome_," Chuck said, sarcastically emphasizing his sister's boyfriend's nickname.

Sarah laughed. "It's true, though!" Chuck insisted.

"So, wait. You call him Captain Awesome?"

"Yeah," Chuck replied. "Wait till you meet him. Everything he does is awesome. Climbing mountains, jumping out of planes… flossing."

_Amateur_, Sarah thought. But she said, "That's funny!"

Chuck actually blushed. "What can I say, I'm a funny guy."

"Which is good," Sarah replied, "because I am… not funny."

From there, she managed to lose herself in the conversation – she managed to almost let it be a real date with a real guy, not some half-cocked spy get together, like everything with Bryce had been, and much as she hated to admit it, like everything with Piers had been. When she mentioned relationship baggage and Chuck sweetly offered to be her baggage handler, it was all she could do to not grab him by his lapels and scream, "WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN ALL MY LIFE?!"

Then, unexpectedly, he managed to bring up Bryce. She almost said his name when referring to him, and lamely changed it to Bruce. "Bruce," Chuck replied. "And you give me crap for being named Chuck."

And then, something happened that wasn't part of the mission. It wasn't supposed to be part of anything. The words, "I like you, Chuck," slipped out of her mouth.

He responded with a smile – an electrifying smile.

As they were walking to their next stop, Chuck asked if she liked music. She almost said the Rolling Stones, but she really didn't want to think about music in any way shape or form right now.

He led her into a club where a live band was playing. She sat for a moment, just enjoying herself – until she looked to the doors and noticed an entire NSA strike team slipping into the club.

Thinking quickly, she grabbed Chuck by the hand. "Let's dance!" she said.

"I'm not really a dancer," he protested, but she dragged him out on the floor anyway. Under the pretext of dance moves, she managed to withdraw a knife, which she threw to pin an agent to the wall, whipped out her hair pins and threw them, taking down two more agents, and then used another knife to take out a fourth. Sliding under Chuck, she bounced back up, a smile on her face –

And there he was. Major John Casey. The man who blamed Sarah for all his troubles. But she wasn't really in the mood to confront him. Instead, she grabbed Chuck by the hand and dragged him outside. "Where's the fire?" he asked weakly, following.

Once they were outside, she demanded his car keys. He started babbling about being old-fashioned and company policy. Sarah didn't have time for his protests, so she picked the lock of his car – had he REALLY called it a HERDER? – and got in. "Get in the car," she commanded.

As he protested, a black Suburban came whipping around a corner. Chuck got into the car. Sarah dropped it into reverse and floored the gas.

However, a Suburban in drive goes much faster than a Toyota Yaris in reverse, and the Suburban slammed into the Herder's front end several times. Sarah had to get out of the situation. "Tell me when to turn!"

"Left in five seconds!" Chuck shot back.

"Your left or my left?"

Even as the question escaped her lips, Sarah realized how stupid it was. Their lefts were the same. Regardless, she cranked the wheel hard to the left, whipping the Herder's back end that direction – to shoot down a flight of stairs.

As they bumped down, the hood flapped up, but it stayed put long enough for her to see the Suburban come to a halt at the top of the stairs.

When the Herder came to a halt on the street below, Sarah looked at Chuck, and with urgency in her voice, said, "Listen to me, Chuck, those men will hurt you. They're from the NSA, and they're after you."

"Me?" he objected, looking terrified and confused all at once. Sarah's heart was just about ready to break as he babbled on, wondering "Why me?"

As he came to his senses and stopped babbling, she heard the roar of an engine, and headlights approached rapidly. Chuck pointed out the window, eyes wide.

Casey's Suburban. It t-boned the Herder, probably in excess of thirty miles an hour. Every airbag in the car deployed, but Sarah was still quick enough to drag Chuck out of the Yaris. "Get down, Chuck!" she ordered him, as the Suburban reversed itself and came roaring back their way.

Chuck tripped, and it looked like he was in serious trouble – but it was Sarah he was concerned about. "Look out!" he yelled, as the Suburban came speeding up behind her.

She looked around frantically – and there it was. A button to deploy emergency barricades in the middle of the street, because they were right outside of the Library Tower.

Drawing her last knife, she hurled it at the button, and scored a direct hit. Behind her, the barricades flew up, and she ducked as the Suburban ran into them full tilt.

"Eat shit and die, Casey," she muttered, looking at the wreckage of the Suburban behind her.

Turning back toward Chuck, she pulled out her cell phone, and as he looked on in astonishment, requested an emergency air evacuation.

As Chuck requested, even demanded an explanation, Sarah went back into full-on deep-cover operative mode, dragging him up to the helipad at the top of the main branch of the Los Angeles Public Library. Finally, she decided to give him something.

"How do you know Bryce Larkin?" she demanded.

"What? How do YOU know Bryce?" he shot back, the shock evident in his voice.

"We work together at the CIA."

"The WHAT?! The CIA?! Bryce is a SPY?! Bryce Larkin from Connecticut is a spy?!"

"A rogue spy," Sarah snapped, pushing down feelings that were threatening to come flying to the surface. "Did he try to contact you?"

Chuck, looking more and more confused, said he hadn't heard from Bryce… since the night before. "He sent me an e-mail."

"Did you open it?!"

"Yeah, it was a line from Zork!" He tried to explain what Zork was, but Sarah wasn't particularly interested. When he got to the part about "lots and lots of pictures", though, she just about had a heart attack.

"You saw them?!"

He nodded slightly. Sarah asked if he backed up his computer. "Was there an external drive?"

"It crashed," he said distractedly. "Wait, was I not supposed to look at those pictures?"

Sarah's attention was elsewhere, though – there was the last person she wanted to see, coming up the ladder to the helipad. "Okay," she said softly. "I may have to aim my gun at you, so just don't freak out."

Chuck's eyes went wide. "WHY?"

John Casey came walking onto the helipad. "It's late!" he growled. "I'm tired. Let's cut the crap, and give him to me. Now. He belongs to the NSA."

And that was when Sarah's Colt cleared her waistband. It snapped up, aimed at Chuck. "The CIA gets him first."

Casey's gun came out, aimed at Sarah. "You come any closer and I SHOOT," she spat at Casey.

"Sarah?" Chuck said nervously. "I'm freakin' out!"

"You shoot him, I shoot you, leave both your bodies here, go out for a late snack," Casey said drily. "Thinkin' maybe pancakes."

That was when Sarah realized Chuck was moving. He ran toward the edge of the helipad, and fear gripped Sarah. "Chuck, no!" she screamed.

And he froze. Right there, on the edge. _What in heaven's name?_ she thought, as he just stood there for a moment.

Slowly, she approached him, her gun still on him, Casey's gun still on her. Without warning, he whipped around to face them.

"They're gonna kill him!" Chuck said, pointing toward the Wilshire Grand Hotel.

"Kill who?" Casey asked, a look of confusion crossing his face.

"Stanfield! The general!" Chuck said. "The general, Stanfield, the NATO guy!"

Casey and Sarah gave each other sideways looks. For a moment, Sarah could almost imagine being back in the Czech Republic, working with Casey and Carina again.

But right at the moment, he had his gun trained on her. That kind of shattered the thought.

"Look, something is wrong with me," Chuck said, bringing her out of her reverie. "I don't know what it is, but something is very, very wrong with me, and I'm remembering things that I shouldn't know."

As he said that, an old memory of a long-since-cancelled CIA program called the Omaha Project went through Sarah's head. _Agent education through subliminal imaging_, the abstract had said.

_No way,_ she thought. _That's not possible._

But maybe it was. "Talk to me, Chuck," she said. "Like what?"

"I don't know," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "For example, uh, there was a Serbian demolitions expert at the Large Mart today! That's kind of odd, wouldn't you say?!"

Chuck turned to Casey. "Look, last week, the NSA, you guys intercepted some blueprints. Blueprints of a hotel. THAT –" he pointed at the Wilshire again "- hotel. And then the CIA, you guys found a file, the schematics of a bomb in Prague! The bomb is in that hotel!"

And with that, Casey whipped is gun around, training it on Chuck. _Like hell,_ Sarah thought, bringing hers around to aim at Casey just as quickly.

"He was workin' with Bryce," Casey said disgustedly.

"No!" Sarah shouted. "He opened Bryce's e-mail!"

Casey slowly looked over at Sarah, realization dawning on his face.

"Chuck, those pictures that you saw were encoded with secrets," Sarah told him, realizing that the Omaha Project had indeed come to fruition – just not in the expected fashion. "Government secrets. If you saw them, then you know them!"

Chuck clearly didn't believe her. "There were thousands of them!"

"Wait a minute," Casey said, also still clearly having a hard time with the idea. "You're tellin' me that all of our secrets are in his head?!"

Sarah finally said it out loud. "Chuck IS the computer."

"What did you say?" Chuck asked in disbelief. "What does that mean?!"

"Chuck, you have to listen to me," Sarah said. "You have to tell us where the bomb –"

"WHAT IS HAPPENING TO ME?!"

"You said there was a bomb!" Sarah yelled. "Is there time to stop it?!"

"What, what, WHAT?! Are you crazy?!"

"No, we're the good guys," Casey replied, suddenly trying to sound sincere and failing miserably – at least in Sarah's opinion. "We get paid to keep bombs from exploding."

And just right than, as irrational as it was, as much as she beat herself up every day over the incident, it was all Sarah could do to keep herself from reminding Casey how poorly that worked out in Brazil. It was probably just as well – he likely would've turned and put a bullet in her head.

Chuck began objecting, saying he couldn't help, insisting that they call Bryce.

"Bryce is dead," Sarah choked out – the first time she'd actually said it out loud. "He died sending those secrets to you." Her voice broke as she finished the sentence.

Chuck's eyes went wide. "Bryce is dead?" And then he fell silent.

Casey rolled his eyes in frustration, pointed his gun skyward, and fired off a shot, bringing Chuck back to reality. "Yeah, and he's gonna have a lot of company unless you start talking. So pretty please, can we defuse the bomb now?"

* * *

Ten minutes later, Sarah found herself running into the Wilshire Grand Hotel, Casey behind her – somebody she'd never thought she'd be working with again. They tried to get Chuck to stay put, to tell them where the bomb was, how to get to it, but instead of telling them, he just started running off toward the main ballroom, with them hot on his heels.

As Chuck burst in the doors of the ballroom, he froze, the two agents freezing behind him. He had no idea where to go.

"Chuck, where is it?" Sarah asked, urgently.

"I don't know," he said, as he looked around the room – and then he saw a banquet cart in the middle. "That's it."

They approached the cart and pulled it open, revealing a laptop connected to a bomb. Casey and Sarah fended off approaching Secret Service agents with their IDs.

As Chuck stared at the computer, rapidly counting down to zero, Sarah had a sick realization – she was about to die.

But was that such a bad thing? After all, Bryce was dead, Piers was dead, her mother was dead, everybody she had ever cared about was dead to her, her father was crazy, her career was in ruins – what did she have left to live for?

Other than this seemingly innocent, fairly cute and friendly guy who had somehow gotten a massive intelligence database dumped into his head?

And that's the point at which Chuck's phone rang. Sarah could only hear his end of the call, but she gathered quickly that it was Morgan Grimes at the other end – and then, Chuck clearly had an idea, as he pulled the phone away from his ear, crouched down by the laptop, and started typing furiously.

"Okay, okay, I have an idea," he said.

"That's not an X-Box," Casey replied derisively, grabbing Chuck's hand, "and you're not an X-Man."

"This is a Prism Express," Chuck shot back, ignoring him. "We sell this at our store. It has a DOS override."

He looked from Casey to the computer to Sarah, his eyes pleading with her. "I think I can do this. I can do this, please."

And she found herself really wanting to live, by whatever means necessary. "He's our best shot," she said, staring at Casey, daring him to challenge her.

Casey looked down at the bomb, and then, surrendering, released Chuck's hand. "Go!"

Chuck cracked his knuckles, and started typing furiously.

When he started searching for Irene Demova, Casey's face took on a disgusted look. "He's searching for porn!"

But Chuck just held up one hand, and clicked on the top link on the search engine.

And as Sarah and Casey stood there, watching in astonishment, the computer melted down, crashing catastrophically. The lights on the bomb went dark.

"You did it!" Sarah said, a feeling of elation and incredible happiness washing over her.

"I did it!" Chuck shouted, fists going in the air. But then, his face changed. "But what if I was wrong?!"

"Don't puke on the C4," Casey cracked. Sarah squeezed his shoulder, and then left him to recover.

* * *

After leaving the hotel, Sarah and Casey had an argument over who was taking Chuck into custody. Just as it was about to get really nasty, Chuck walked up, basically told them both that as the keeper of the secrets, he was in charge, and departed into the Los Angeles night, saying that he was going home.

By the next morning, Sarah and Casey had come to an agreement with their respective superiors. Chuck would stay in Los Angeles, under their supervision. "You realize, this means I have to extend your final mission, Agent Walker?" Graham had asked her.

"I understand, sir," she replied. "I'm okay with that."

Chuck hadn't gone home, though. Sarah drove past his apartment. He wasn't there. He wasn't at the Buy More. Finally, getting desperate, she called Langley and had them do a search on his phone. He was at the beach in Santa Monica.

When Sarah found him, the sun was rising, and he was sitting alone, on the beach. She pulled off her boots, shivering at the feel of the cold sand underneath her feet, and approached him.

She slowed as she came up next to him.

"How long have you been here?" he asked.

"All night," she replied. A little lie never hurt anybody.

"There's nowhere I can run from you people, is there?"

As he said those words, she could hear the contempt, the bitterness dripping from them – something that hadn't been there the day before. For some reason, it tore at her soul.

She was desperate to keep him – she wasn't quite sure, but innocent was the best thing that came to mind. "Talk to me, Chuck," she pleaded.

And he did. He couldn't figure out why Bryce decided to send him the Intersect. He wanted to know what was going to happen, and she really wasn't sure. She came up with the best answer she could, but it wasn't enough to pacify him.

As she sat on the beach with him, watching the sun rise, she asked him to do something – something that she hadn't asked anybody in years. The last person she'd asked this of had gone on to betray her.

"Trust me, Chuck," she said.

He didn't say anything, just looked back at her, and then down at the sand. Trying to encourage him, she playfully bumped him with her shoulder, and he cracked a small smile.

Together, they sat there for a while, as the sun continued to come up. Sarah had no idea where this was going. One thing was certain, though.

This was going to be like no mission she had ever been on before.


	21. EPILOGUE: The Seduction of Sarah Walker

**Wednesday, July 4****th****, 2063**

**Mountain View Hospice**

**Flagstaff, Arizona**

"Well… that's… pretty much… the whole… story… right up… until… I met your… grandfather," Sarah Bartowski forced out.

Almost every word was a struggle for her anymore. Diagnosed five years prior with an extremely rare disease known as Progressive Supranuclear Palsy – only 3 in 50,000 people are diagnosed with this disease – she was almost at the end.

Chuck had had to watch helplessly over the last five years as his beloved Sarah had been transformed from a graceful, vivacious woman in her mid-seventies into a husk of her former self, her muscles and nervous system shot, but her brain still functioning at full capacity. She knew exactly what was happening to her body.

"And I've told you just about everything else," Chuck finished.

Their granddaughter, Casey Eleanor Bartowski, looked up from her notes, and smiled. "This is an amazing story."

Sarah smiled weakly. "Isn't… it just?"

Casey, at 24, was the spitting image of her grandmother at that same age. The blonde hair, the piercing blue eyes, the alabaster skin – Chuck did a double take almost every time he saw her.

Casey had approached her master's advisor at Cal-Berkeley about four months prior with the idea of, instead of a master's thesis, writing a biography of her grandparents. Her advisor had been skeptical until he'd met Chuck and Sarah, and heard a watered-down version of their story. Even that had been enough to make his eyes widen, and he'd given his emphatic approval of the idea.

Of course, the idea had had to go through the CIA and the NSA. Since John Casey had died nearly twenty-five years beforehand, the NSA signed off on it with no problems; the CIA, however, insisted that Casey wait to publish the book until Sarah and Chuck had both passed. She had initially balked at this, but Sarah and Chuck had convinced her that she wouldn't have to wait too long – Sarah didn't have much longer, because of the PSP, and Chuck had congestive heart failure – and it would, in the long run, be more than worth it.

"So, have you decided a title for this monster yet?" Chuck asked his granddaughter.

She had been vacillating between two titles since she formulated the idea, but believed she finally picked one. "I'm gonna call it _The Seduction of Sarah Walker: A Tale of the CIA_."

Sarah and Chuck exchanged a look, and Sarah laughed softly. "That… sounds like… a… John LeCarre… novel… or something."

Casey frowned. "Who's John LeCarre?"

Chuck laughed. "Never mind. It's certainly better than that other title you were thinking of."

"What, you didn't like _The Star-Spangled Intersect_, Grandpa?"

Chuck glared at his granddaughter. "Young lady, I wanted that to be the title about as much as I want another computer in my head."

Casey Bartowski looked contemplatively at her grandfather. "Do you ever have flashes anymore?"

Chuck looked at Sarah, and then back at Casey. "Very rarely," he said quietly. "But once in a great while, I'll see something that I've never seen before that was in the database fifty-six years ago, and I'll flash on it."

He sighed. "It hurts when it happens. It gives me a migraine that lasts for hours."

Then he smiled. "But I never would've met your grandmother without them. And you wouldn't have your book!"

Casey smiled back. "Do you think it's going to do well, Grandpa?"

"I know so, young lady. After all, you're a Bartowski."

She laughed. "It's getting late," the youngest of the Bartowskis said. "I should probably get back to my hotel."

"Good night, Casey," Chuck said, standing up to hug her and kiss her on the cheek.

As he did so, he laughed. "It's been twenty-five years since John died, and twenty-four years since you were born, and it still seems funny for me to say 'Good night, Casey,' and then kiss you on the cheek."

"You really are a goof sometimes, Grandpa."

Chuck let go, and Casey moved over to her grandmother's bed. "Good night, Grandma."

"Good… night… Casey," Sarah whispered. Casey leaned down and kissed her on the cheek.

"I'll see you two in the morning," she said, as she walked out the door of their room.

After she left, Chuck helped Sarah get ready for bed, and then got ready for bed himself. He had turned out the light, and gotten into his bed, when he heard Sarah whisper, "Chuck…"

He sat back up. "Sarah?"

"Why don't… you… sleep… in my bed… tonight."

He smiled, thinking of how different a meaning that invitation had now than it did fifty-five years before. "Alright… Agent Walker."

She half coughed, half laughed. "Don't… even think… about it… Mr. Bartowski."

Chuck crossed to Sarah's bed, and slowly slid his eighty-two year old frame into it. Gently, he curled his body up against Sarah's as much as he could. Reaching over her, he grasped her left hand in his own, arthritic fingers struggling to curl around each other.

He sighed, and smiled again. "I love you, Sarah."

"I… love you… too, Chuck."

"Good night."

"Good… night."

* * *

_The following is an excerpt from _**The Seduction of Sarah Walker: A Tale of the CIA**_**, by Sarah Walker and Chuck Bartowski, as told to Casey Eleanor Bartowski**_

**Afterword**

The morning after hearing my grandmother's part of the story from September 11th, 2001, up until September 25th, 2007 – the day she met my grandfather – I was awakened just after 7:00 AM by a phone call.

The call was from Mountain View Hospice Center, telling me that I needed to come over immediately.

When I arrived, the doctor who had been caring for my grandparents informed me of events that had happened during the night.

According to computer logs, at just after 3:00 AM, my grandmother's heart had stopped. However, within ten seconds, the alarm had been silenced, and no medical staff were alerted.

At 6:30 AM, a nurse stopped by the room to give my grandparents their daily wake-up call, and discovered the silent flatline on my grandmother's heart monitor. However, when she tried to awaken my grandfather, she discovered that he, too, was gone.

It was quickly determined that his heart had stopped a little more than three hours before – just minutes after my grandmother's.

They hadn't been moved from their room yet, and so I asked to see them. When I was taken into their room, I saw an image that will remain with me for the rest of my days.

There they were, my grandfather curled up against my grandmother. His left hand was entwined with hers, their wedding rings resting one atop the other. Both had smiles on their faces.

It seemed like a very appropriate end to the story of two incredible lives – that Sarah and Chuck should leave the world, together, at the very last.

**The End**

* * *

_For more information on Progressive Supranuclear Palsy (Sarah's disease), please visit **www** dot** psp** dot** org**.  
_


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